


Vargas

by Zarla



Series: Vargas Continuity [1]
Category: Johnny the Homicidal Maniac
Genre: Alternate Reality, Codependency, Drama, Graphic Violence, Homoerotic Psychodrama, Humor, Internal Monologue, Other, Serial Killers, Supernatural Elements, Unhealthy Relationships, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2003-02-17
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2017-10-06 04:05:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 29
Words: 296,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/49492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zarla/pseuds/Zarla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Johnny had not killed Edgar? How much of a difference can one person make?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Replacement

"I envy your conviction."

Brief, short, thorny words. Despite what he was sure Johnny intended to be a comforting or encouraging farewell, Edgar was not at ease. As he had said just earlier to his captor, he would rather not die, but apparently that was not his decision.

He was not afraid. He just did not want to do it. On the positive side, at least the pain would be over shortly.

He was watching the thin, skeletal hands reach for whatever mechanism would bring him to his premature end when a sharp noise cut through the air, startling both into looking upwards towards where it had originated. It sounded peculiarly like someone being electrocuted.

Edgar tried to put together everything that his recent experiences with Johnny and his quick survey of the room to make a general hypothesis about what had created the sound. "Is that-"

Johnny cut him off, holding up one hand as his eyes slowly moved downwards. "Someone..."

Relief flooded through Edgar Vargas' body. Johnny had not _wanted_ to kill him, but had to do so for some strange reason that did not make a whole lot of sense. If someone else were to come, perhaps someone more deserving of this fate than he was, then maybe he would not have to die...

"Someone at the door?"

"Shh." There was a growing sense of aggression and frustration in Johnny's voice. He was apparently thinking deeply or considering what he had to do - definitely not focusing on immediate reality at that moment. Johnny's silence was not good.

Edgar decided that, if his life could be ended at any moment, he may as well attempt to stall or avert that decision. "If that _is_ someone else, then maybe could you kill them instead of me...I haven't hurt you or annoyed you to my knowledge. If someone is coming here to your house to really _bother_ you without asking then maybe..."

Edgar did not pause to consider the irony of his words. After all, Johnny had somehow captured him, trapped him in this ghoulish machine, and was planning to use his blood to paint a _wall_ and he had definitely gone about it in a very unsolicited manner.

Johnny turned back towards him, narrowing his eyes at Edgar dangerously. He wondered if he was going to go on another rant about people and how terrible they were. This curiousity turned to worry as he saw Johnny's eyes dart towards the knife he had left on the floor.

Another buzzing shriek. This galvanized the man into action, the knife flashing into his hand in movements too fast to register.

"You don't have to kill me-"

"Shut up!" Johnny was apparently tormented by the decision the shriek had now posed him with. While Edgar was here and readily available, he did not deserve death. On the other hand, someone was waiting rather impatiently outside his door who would in most likelihood easily earn an early end.

Edgar would have found the decision easy to make, but then again, he was not in control. He also was not insane, which he was sure was a fairly large part of Johnny's inability to make a decision.

"Just shut up!"

"I beg you to reconsider-"

The ability of Johnny's mood to change abruptly from quiet sadness to intense fury had been made clear to Edgar earlier in their conversation, such as when Johnny had reacted almost violently to Edgar's logical pleas for mercy. Although he knew that Johnny was capable of such mood swings, it did not make him any more prepared when they actually occurred.

Fury crossed Johnny's face, quick and terrible, and he lashed out at Edgar. The way that Johnny moved his arms and hands made it seem more as if Johnny was gesturing, sweeping his arm out to illustrate a point, and had merely forgotten that he was holding his knife. Although this was possible, considering the man's mental state, it was also possible that this was entirely deliberate. Edgar did not presume to know nearly enough to judge the actions one way or another. There wasn't much he could do about it anyway, restrained as he was.

The blade cut into his cheek beneath his glasses, sharp stinging followed by the uncomfortable feeling of blood welling within the wound. He barely registered the pain before a second strike mirrored the first on the other side of his face.

That kind of ruled out Johnny doing it by accident.

As Johnny raised his knife for the final downward plunge into Edgar's body, he could not help but notice that as Johnny moved, he seemed to be fighting something. Whatever deranged internal arguments he was having with himself no doubt caused his delay in answering the shriek, but also seemed to stay his hand...to prevent the final lethal stab and to make what could have been damaging blows to Edgar's face something only glancing.

The lost expression in Johnny's eyes made it clear he was not entirely present at the moment, although in what sense Edgar was not sure. Maybe he really was hearing something, perhaps some strange form of a demon or an angel on his shoulders, although he doubted Johnny had such a defined set of ethics.

His closest logical guess was that Johnny was weighing the merits of going upstairs and killing someone or just killing someone right now. Laziness? That seemed so mundane.

Apparently Johnny's internal battle ended and he finally moved from his frozen position, his hand lowering itself back to his side. The knife remained clenched in one tight, thin fist as Johnny backed away with a sudden realization of what he had done. He stared at the tiny trickle of blood slowly making its way down Edgar's sharply defined face with deep disgust, although with no concern for Edgar's wellbeing.

That was confusing...if he needed enough blood to paint a wall with it, then how could the sight of so little disturb him so much?

On a slightly related note, why had he not finished Edgar off? Maybe the knowledge that he liked Edgar had stopped him, but that didn't seem to have an effect on Johnny when he was about to kill him only moments before. That didn't really make sense either.

Edgar wasn't sure what to say in response to Johnny's actions. There was silence as Johnny pressed his hands against his head, the knife still held in his bony fist, his eyes shut tight almost as if he struggled to keep whatever internal demons within him trapped in his physical prison.

Two buzzing shrieks in rapid succession.

"You should answer that," Edgar ventured in a steady, level voice. He had to keep calm, anything to calm down the man in front of him. The minor injuries he had suffered would almost be like gifts if he could escape this alive.

Johnny looked up at him with sheer hatred for a moment, dark eyes piercing him even through his thick glasses. It was the same look that was present when Johnny was trying to explain why Edgar should appreciate the pain he was going through.

In a way, he understood now what Johnny had been trying to convey, although it was all still hideously twisted. This certainly _would_ make him appreciate his life.

No doubt Johnny was upset that Edgar himself was not upset. That, unlike many other things, did make sense.

Edgar watched as Johnny stood there, hands still pressed against his head tightly, looking down with his mouth open. No sound came from him, but Johnny shook his head back and forth slightly after a few minutes, unable to keep the battle entirely internal. After what seemed like hours, Johnny finally pulled his hands away, the pressure leaving white marks on dark skin, and he looked at Edgar with an unreadable expression.

Was he really going to die this time?

Johnny stared at Edgar for some time, studying him, thinking. He did not look as tormented as he had before, but he still seemed to be making a difficult decision. Edgar was worried that words would only antagonize Johnny into finishing what he started.

Almost with a slight nod to some unknown entity, Johnny turned and walked quickly and silently away, leaving Edgar to his own devices, so to speak.

Incapable of movement and not finding much else he could do in his current situation, Edgar decided to revisit what had happened in his mind, hoping that it may give him a clue to help make his escape.

How had he got here? One day he was walking home and then he was here...had Johnny knocked him out? He had no physical injuries when he woke. Had Johnny somehow talked him into coming back with him? He would have remembered that. His memory was so indistinct on what had exactly happened and that was extremely irritating.

Why had Johnny chosen _him_? Edgar could not help but feel that it had been a mistake. After all, Johnny had lectured Edgar on the reprehensibilty of mankind and had quite obviously not expected intelligent and understanding answers. He had expressed regret at having to kill him and had called him his friend. Edgar could not believe that Johnny had been tracking him this long for whatever sins he had commited. It had to have been random chance.

That made Edgar feel slightly better. At least there was nothing he could have done to prevent this.

Two, perhaps three hours passed before Johnny returned. The blood on Edgar's face had dried, although the spatters on Johnny's seemed much more recent and fresh. He looked at Edgar with an extremely confused expression, as if he had completely forgotten he was there. Maybe he had...Edgar would not put it past him.

Johnny narrowed his eyes at him, staring at him like someone watching a peculiar insect. Again the faintly lost look in his eyes was present, the definite impression that he was listening _for_ or _to_ something. Finally, he moved back and brushed off his shirt slightly self-consciously, although the red stains were far too permanent to be removed so easily.

"...Vargas?" The thorns were still present; they were always present. However, they lacked the kind of malice and hatred that had been present before, and Edgar's hope for freedom was reignited with more fervor.

"Yes. Nny?"

At the sound, Johnny smiled in a very strange way. It was almost like some kind of pressure had been released. Edgar had not seen him smile since he had first mentioned his nickname at all. On a normal person, the pleased smile may have been disarming, but Edgar was not about to let his guard down around him. Johnny had said himself that he was quite hideously insane and Edgar had absolutely no reason to doubt him.

"Yes..."

Johnny tilted his head to one side again, staring at him from a short distance away. The confused, appraising look was gone now. If Johnny was capable at all of slight affection, this had to be it. It was the same look he had when explaining how his name was to be pronounced. Edgar couldn't trust it, but it was reassuring in a strange way. Maybe he wouldn't die after all.

"Yes...Edgar, right?"

Edgar couldn't help but smile in response, hoping that Johnny wouldn't feel threatened and decide to kill him anyway. "That's right. Was that...?"

"Hmm?" Confusion for only a second. "Oh...you...proved to be correct on that point." The cold, angry tone was entering his voice again. "A solicitor...someone who was more deserving of being burned." Johnny glanced at him for a moment, as if worried that Edgar would not remember his previous justification--burning an effigy--for ending his life. Edgar did remember and nodded for him to continue, which seemed to satisfy Johnny.

He moved his focus from Edgar to the knife, which again seemed to have appeared in his hand, stained a dark brownish-red. Johnny played with its edge as he spoke, bitterness and barely repressed fury giving the thorns new points and renewed danger. "Thoughtless, careless human beings. All of them...I would have killed her even if she had not decided to insult me. She was large." A twisted smile came across Johnny's face. "She had a lot of blood. Convenient, really."

"Then you don't need me, do you?"

Johnny looked at him, then back at the knife in his hand, looking almost genuinely surprised and perplexed by the simple question. He thought for a moment before looking up with a strange expression on his face, as if he had reached some kind of spiritual epiphany. He turned and took slow steps towards Edgar, inciting the instinctive fear response in him. Johnny was a predator...everything about him bled predator, and it was hard to stifle that response, even with Edgar's fatalistic view of death.

"No...no, I suppose I don't."

"Then, would you let me go? Because I really _would_ like to go...this is still kind of painful..." Edgar touched his words with a light sense of humor, hoping that would help pacify him.

Johnny inclined his head at him again. In a way, Edgar felt as though he was being elevated; elevated from the lower creature that Johnny must have viewed him as in order to kill him to the level of a decent human being. He had thought that originally this would save him beforehand, but it turned out necessity--in the terms of the required blood--had forced him to be relinquished back to an object. Johnny _had_ apologized and expressed regret, for what little good that would have done Edgar, before he had prepared to kill him. But now, he felt he had gained that respect once again. Johnny's "bestest bestest friend", as he had put it.

At least, that's how he hoped Johnny was able to kill people. That was the only way that made sense to him.

Johnny reached upwards with his long, almost impossibly thin arms, undoing the tight buckles that pressed painfully against Edgar's chest. The release of pressure was wonderful, as was the removal of the threat of death. Despite the smell of blood, death, and the vague scent of cherries in the air, he breathed deep and cherished it. One by one, the restraints around his wrists and his ankles were released, and he stumbled to the floor unsteadily, his legs weak. Johnny watched this with the same sense of detachment he had before, his hands held behind his back.

"Alright." This simple word seemed to amuse Johnny greatly, and he smiled with a kind of insane abandon that Edgar had not been familiar with. It was very unsettling. "Alright, you can go. I don't really need you after all."

Edgar struggled to keep calm, still not trusting the thin man who stood nearby with such a manic smile on his face. He smiled weakly back at him, again hoping not to antagonize him further. "Thank you."

Johnny's eyes widened for a moment and once again, he leaned his head to one side, a look of classic confusion on his face at Edgar's words. Johnny then shrugged and began walking off, guessing correctly that Edgar would follow him in a desperate attempt to get out of this basement.

"...That's alright." Everpresent barbs in his words, but underlaced with a kind of confusion.

Edgar wondered briefly if Johnny really would have been sorry if he had ended up dead. Was this show of sympathy just that; a show? Would he have gleefully reveled over his mangled body? It was a unpleasant train of thought, so Edgar struggled to move on to others.

He studied the walls as they passed by, finding disturbing paintings of frighteningly beautiful quality as he ascended what felt like endless stairs.

How had Johnny dragged him this far down? Was he that strong?

"Um...Nny?" He felt a kind of apprehension at using the nickname, still afraid of the man who walked in front of him with such quiet confidence.

"Yes?" The confusion was lessening now.

"Can I ask you something?"

Johnny turned his head slightly to one side, looking at a wall as he passed by, apparently regarding this carefully.

"A few things really..." Edgar fumbled for words, already piecing together an apology in his mind should Johnny turn violent. "If that's alright with you..."

"It..." Clawlike fingertips brushing against the wall as he walked upwards. "I suppose..."

He didn't need to warn Edgar to be careful with his questions.

"You mentioned something about you not being able to die..."

Johnny was silent for a very long time, nothing in his posture or gait indicating that he had heard the semi-question at all. Edgar began to feel extremely self-conscious as they made their way through endless rooms, each with their own bizarre form of torture device. He lost count of how many they walked through while Johnny maintained his silence.

"That." Dangerously soft and without emotion. Edgar already regretted his question, wishing he had thought of something less sensitive. Why on _earth_ had he asked a question like that? The only worse possible question would have been asking why Johnny was crazy in the first place.

Edgar looked to one side in their current room of death to find what looked like a gutted torso hanging from a wall and a severed foot on the floor. Johnny stepped over the body part without thought, but Edgar swerved around it, struggling to keep his composure.

"I don't think I can die." Finally a response came, in the same emotionless tone as before. Johnny reached forward and opened a door, finally revealing a room that finally seemed to be above the earth. The semi-boarded window had a view of the stars, the moon, and other houses.

Another rush of relief flooded through Edgar's body at the thought of freedom being so close and yet so far.

"Alright..." Edgar did not want to pursue the topic further, sure he'd already pushed his luck enough, and watched carefully as Johnny made his way across the barren floor, past a ratty couch and a TV, to the one other door. He opened it with an almost dignified air, revealing the outside world only footsteps away. "I probably shouldn't have asked."

"That's alright." Johnny stared at him for a moment. "After all..." The manic smile returned. "I don't think you'd understand anyway."

He had to say something...but what?

"Thanks again for letting me go, Nny."

He winced inwardly. _Brilliant._

Again, the nickname came from him with some degree of awkwardness, still not used to its sound or function. It again elicited the same pleased response from Johnny, a strange sense of bewilderment and pleasure at being called by such a familiar name, even one that he had given himself. It was peculiar and Edgar did not quite understand, but that was not really important.

He felt the grass underneath his feet through his thin shoes as he truly walked outside, unmolested and unimpeded, turning to see Johnny standing in the doorway of his house, staring at him again. Something seemed to be wrong...Johnny was looking at him in the same confused way, apparently not sure of what he should say or do.

"Bye." Edgar ventured to raise a hand to wave, and Johnny, seemingly relieved, waved back silently. The door slammed and Edgar stood on the lawn for a moment, unable to comprehend what had happened. A tortured scream of a human being came from the boarded house he stood in front of and next door, the squeaking of what must have been a frightened child followed.

Without hesitation, Edgar turned and ran for the nearest police station.

* * *

"You made a friend, Nny."

Johnny was sitting on his couch, contemplating what had just happened with confusion. Nail Bunny's voice was currently dominant and in fact, the one that had stopped him from killing Edgar when the chance arose.

"I don't make friends," Johnny remarked casually, looking over to where the rabbit had been attached forcibly to the wall. "It doesn't really work with me."

"This Edgar guy seems kind of nice. It's good you didn't kill him."

"I didn't need to." Johnny did not really see the point in this conversation. It was rare in his life that he felt rather complacent and not agonizingly tortured by his existence, so he was kind of enjoying it. The wall was fine, he wasn't hungry, one of his favorite shows was on...

However, Edgar did not fit into this picture of happiness. Johnny felt this strong sense of unfinished business for a few moments after he left, then Edgar was blissfully forgotten. He would be like the others that he had released; forgotten after they served their purpose.

He doubted Edgar would come back. Ever. It was not like he had a motive to do so. "Besides, I don't think he was a friend anyway. He won't come back."

"This time you didn't just ask him to do something for you though, like some of the others. You actually talked with him, remember?" Johnny did remember actually, which presented another confusing element to his rare, satisfied state. "And he didn't inspire you to kill, either."

"That is true."

"You had a sane conversation with him." Bunny paused for a moment. "Mostly. And he was a decent guy, right?"

Johnny felt like he was losing an argument, although he did not know who it was with. He and Bunny weren't really arguing...at least it didn't seem that way. "True..."

"I told you they were out there. You should talk to him again. He could be your friend."

"You know what happens to my friends." Johnny normally would have made his words dangerous and intriguingly dark and mysterious, but enthralled in the television as he normally was, they only came out with the same kind of flat certainty that his original assessment of his friend-making abilities had. "They all turn into the others, those bloated ticks..." Johnny tried to muster up his normal righteous anger, but in the end subsided back into the couch. "You know what I mean."

"Despite what you may believe, I think Edgar may be different. You should give him a chance."

Johnny waved a hand in Nail Bunny's direction, fully intending to never initiate contact with Edgar again. "Alright, if you think that's a good idea."

Nail Bunny lapsed into silence and Johnny was left to the television.

* * *

"I'm telling you, this psychotic maniac kidnapped me and ranted semi-coherently about deeply philosophical topics."

The officer looked at Edgar with tired boredom. "Uh huh. And why have we never heard of this..." She paused. "Johnny C. is it?"

"Yes." Edgar was now irritated, becoming more sarcastic than he intended. He had assumed the police would do something to help him, but as it turned out, Johnny had no criminal record. Despite the sheer amount of dead bodies in Johnny's house, the police apparently had not noticed he _liked to kill people_.

It was almost if Johnny didn't exist.

Maybe that was why he couldn't die. But now wasn't the time for that.

"And you say he killed people?"

"Lots of people. He would have killed me, but he let me go at the last minute."

"Why?"

"In favor of someone else."

"Did you catch their name?"

Now that would have been helpful. "No...that didn't really come up."

"Where did you say he lived?"

Edgar had tried to memorize the street that Johnny lived on and the number of his house as he ran, but he wasn't sure if his information was reliable. Sure enough, as soon as he told the officer what he did recall, she looked back at him with now _irritated_ boredom.

"That street doesn't exist."

Edgar looked at her with a strange expression. "Doesn't exist?"

"No record." She flipped through her papers, trying to convey the feeling that she was doing something useful or related to their conversation. "Are you sure you weren't having a weird _dream_ or something?"

"Normally, I wouldn't doubt that." Edgar had an abnormal amount of sarcasm in his voice. "But then again, normally I don't _cut_ _myself_ when I'm dreaming either."

"Are there any razors in your house?" She looked down at her papers, returning back to tired boredom.

"Yes." Edgar fought the urge to roll his eyes. What house didn't have razors? Especially considering he had a goatee. Did she think he'd be foolish enough to cut himself? What would be the _point_?

He took a deep breath and decided to calm down and take a more passive approach. Just drop it. "If you want, I can try and take you to the street."

The officer rolled her eyes before straightening papers entirely unrelated to Edgar. In fact, he wasn't sure he saw her write anything he had just said down at all. "Not tonight. It's late. Go home and get some rest. Come back here tomorrow."

The tone in her voice made it clear that she fully expected Edgar to not come back and to dismiss what had happened as a bad dream. But the wounds on his face did not make that a likely possibility.

"Thanks for your trouble." Edgar did not want to say that, but he felt it was the best response. He left the police station feeling deeply unfulfilled and somewhat angry.

As he walked home, he found himself confused as he mused over his recent encounter. There was no way that Johnny could murder so many people and not get caught...how did he do it? Didn't their families notice members missing? A beloved notice her boyfriend missing a head? Johnny got away with an obscene amount...no, an _impossible_ amount of violence, so much so that he could not blame this on police incompetence.

Maybe someone was paying to hush it up? But there was no way someone would pay to keep that many murders quiet. It wouldn't really be a good investment on their part. Someone was bound to notice. Then again, so far no one had.

This was all very confusing.

Edgar kept running through the conversation the two had had and finding it more frightening. He could not believe he had made it out alive. Every word and action and logical conclusion pointed to him being nothing more than specialized _paint_ at the moment, and yet here he was.

Alive and well and on slightly-better-than-neutral terms with a deranged serial killer.

He could not believe he made it out alive. How many people had died before him and would die after him? He didn't know. It was a disturbing thought to consider himself the only one to survive such systematic human destruction.

He wondered exactly what troubled Johnny. Edgar was sure that Johnny was pretty much beyond any kind of help, but he wondered with a kind of scientific curiousity. Maybe voices? He did seem to listen intently at times when Edgar had heard nothing. Did voices tell him to kill? Even he grimaced at that thought. That would be far too trite and cliché. Johnny seemed fully aware of exactly what he was doing.

Edgar could somewhat understand his origins from the fractured and illogical conversation they had had, but that did not lessen the fear and confusion he felt when he thought about him. Killing other people...that was so...how could he do that?

As he had mused before, he doubted Johnny had a very clearly defined sense of ethics. Edgar would have been his opposite in this regard...he had a very clear, although somewhat lenient, definition of right and wrong and Johnny fit squarely into the latter category. Edgar may be forgiving, but murder was something that he did not approve of, no matter what the justification. Although he could understand and to some point sympathize with Johnny about why he wanted to kill people, he did not think Johnny should have actually done so.

As he reached his small, sparsely furnished apartment, he shrugged his shoulders, wishing to remove the matter from his mind entirely. If there was one thing he could at least be sure about with Johnny, he was never going to see him again. And that was good enough reason to sleep peacefully and put the matter to rest, which was exactly what Edgar did.


	2. Phone

"Of course she wouldn't love you. She is like the others, empty and hollow. She would pretend and be so empty on the inside and in the end, you'd only be alone again. The only true love lies in death, Johnny. That is where the real escape lies."

"He lies, Johnny. You should ask her. Enjoy the moment. Feel, do something. You've thought about it. You know you want to. It will be beautiful."

Johnny was sitting on the couch, paralyzed with indecision as the combating voices argued in his mind. He sat near the phone, tapping one clawlike finger as he waited for one of the doughboys to present a truly convincing argument. So far they were arguing eachother to a standstill and Johnny still did not know what to do.

"She can tolerate you, Johnny. You know she can, she isn't like the others. You've seen her, you've watched her. You know what she says. She's _real_. Ask her. Remember the other times?"

Johnny did remember, and this gave Mr. Eff an advantage. He almost smiled. "The other times..."

"It was beautiful then. You were happy, remember? This won't be any different. Ask her."

"You're lying to yourself, Johnny, and he only lies to you as well. Of course she'll be different. Remember the other one, the one who screamed before she died? She was so ugly, Johnny. You remember. Do you want that to happen to her?"

Again, both sides had left him without a decision. They had their points, but Johnny still did not know what to do.

"You should get another opinion, Nny." Nail Bunny's soft voice came into his mind, resulting in the doughboys recoiling angrily at the intrusion. "They aren't exactly trustworthy."

"What do you think?"

Nail Bunny paused before speaking. "I think you should do it. You could get so much if it went successfully."

"The Bunny is just another voice in your head, Nny." Mr. Eff was not happy about Nail Bunny's contribution. "It's not a second opinion, it's your own."

"Then who _should_ I ask?" Johnny was now as irritated as one of his voices. Nail Bunny spoke once more.

"Do you remember that other one? The one who escaped?"

Johnny looked down for a moment, deep in thought. He struggled to find the correct name before speaking. "You mean...Edgar, right? I think that was his name..."

"That's right. You should ask him."

"Why..." Johnny paused before settling on his words. "He wouldn't talk to me. I have no way of contacting him and he probably doesn't remember me."

Nail Bunny's voice held almost a slight tinge of amusement as it dealt with Johnny's points all at once. "You should at least try. You have a phone and there's a phonebook somewhere nearby, and I seriously doubt _anyone_ could forget a stay here."

"He won't talk to you, you tried to kill him, remember? I think that puts a damper on your relationship. Don't listen." Johnny talking with outside sources was not good. They had to keep control of him until the wall... "You should just stay here. Stay and finally go over the stars..."

Johnny stood and rubbed the back of his head, nervous energy running through him and making his movements shaky. "I don't know what I should do...I hate feeling this...conflicted."

"Call him. You have nothing to lose." 

As a rule, Nail Bunny's advice was always the most sane, so in the end, this was what Nny eventually decided to do. After all, he could not kill Edgar through a phone, so that element of fear would be eliminated. Edgar had also been very logical during their other conversation, so surely he would have some good advice.

* * *

"Hello?" Edgar fumbled for his glasses as he raised phone to his ear, too groggy to wonder about who was calling him. What time was it? The bright green blurs of his alarm clock eventually turned into numbers as he pulled his glasses on. Two AM?

"Edgar...Vargas?"

Blind panic surged through his body at the familiar voice and he jerked around, eyes immediately flying to the nearby window. He fully expected to see Johnny standing there with a huge cellphone, smiling and holding someone's head, but he was disappointed in this regard. After giving his fear a bit more conscious thought, he found he was being utterly ridiculous.

Meanwhile, time was zipping by. _Quick Edgar, think of something to say._

"What _time_ is it...?"

_Brilliant._

"It's not important." Johnny's voice was crackly and faint through the phone's speaker. How did he get his number? He fumbled for the light switch, then thought better of it. "I have to ask you something."

Edgar, his body still trembling from adrenaline, fell back onto his bed, staring up at the ceiling helplessly. Why hadn't he hung up?

With a sigh, he took his glasses off and set them to one side, rubbing at his temples. He responded slowly, his words still slightly slurred from sleep. "Alright, what?"

There was a pause from the other end of the line, almost as if Johnny had not expected him to agree. Edgar was still groggy and not sure of what he was saying. That had to be he hadn't hung up by now.

"I'm not sure whether..." Johnny paused and a sound came through the speaker. It was a kind of angry hissing and Edgar got the impression that Johnny was probably cursing or speaking to himself. "I'm thinking of talking to this girl I've seen at the bookstore."

"And?" Edgar wasn't thinking when he responded so quickly, too tired to alter his natural responses for him. Johnny apparently did not expect this either and paused again.

"I'm not sure whether I should or not."

Edgar opened his mouth to ask why, but thought better of it. At this point, he was so exhausted he just wanted to go back to sleep, thus his brain logically deduced the quickest way out of the conversation. "I would do it. She sounds like she must be nice if you don't want to kill her."

Johnny was silent. Edgar rubbed at his eyes again, feeling as if he had again signed his own death sentence. But it was only a phone. He couldn't get stabbed through a phone. "I would give it a try. You've got nothing to lose, really. Look, call me later, maybe at a..." Edgar wanted to say 'sane' but quickly replaced the word. He reached over clumsily for his alarm clock on instinct to see what time it was before remembering he wasn't wearing his glasses. His hand again returned to his forehead. "...some other time if it works out, alright?"

Edgar was only moments away from hanging up, but he wanted to at least hear what Johnny had to say. Maybe just an affirmation that Edgar would be dead by the morning?

"Okay." Johnny's voice held a sense of acceptance, something that Edgar found strange. No argument at all.

So maybe he wouldn't die.

_Weird._

"Bye." Edgar then hung up the phone and rolled back over. Sleep was a while in coming. He couldn't shake the feeling that he had just made a huge mistake.

* * *

When he woke up the next morning, Edgar struggled to remember what had happened the previous night. He ran through the conversation he had had with Johnny with the same kind of disbelieving surprise he experienced when he escaped his house before. How on earth did this keep happening to him? He was perhaps the most average guy he knew of. He had no outstanding features or beliefs and yet, somehow, he managed to keep getting into these absolutely incomprehensible situations.

As he remembered bits and pieces of their phone conversation, Edgar suddenly felt guilty. He had given Johnny advice which the he apparently planned to follow. However, he had not considered the ramifications of doing so.

Whoever this girl was that Johnny seemed fascinated with, Edgar was fairly sure she was probably dead. Johnny was not a stable person and he doubted that anyone could stay alive in his presence for long. The fact that Edgar himself had survived was a testament of pure, dumb luck. He doubted that this girl would be so lucky.

Then again, maybe she would be just what Johnny needed. Maybe she could make Johnny moderately sane, or at least sane enough not to kill her. Edgar kind of doubted it, but he did not rule it out as a possibility.

He did not know Johnny's number and had no way of getting it, considering Johnny's peculiar invisibility on a larger social scale. Johnny had been infuriatingly vague about the bookstore's name or location and even the name of the person he was interested in. Edgar had nothing he could do, except maybe search each of the nearby bookstores systematically. However, he was not entirely excited by the thought of seeing Johnny again. He had escaped death once...he did not want to run into him again.

So Edgar waited. Days went by and Edgar went to work, did menial tasks, and basically accomplished nothing of any lasting importance.

Typical for Edgar. What jolted him out of the normal routine he was finally slipping back into was another phone call.

He picked it up hesitantly, already guessing at who would be at that other end. No one called him. His life was surprisingly and conveniently empty, as he had stated before Johnny had come very close to ending it.

"Hello?"

"Edgar?"

Johnny. The thorns in his voice were present, even over the phone. Edgar ran a hand through his short hair awkwardly, still nervously looking around the room. It seemed rather early for Johnny to be calling him...it wasn't even midnight yet. "Um...hello."

There was a silence from the other end of the line and Edgar again felt a growing sense of unease. "How did it go?"

He winced. He was not sure if he even wanted to know. Another pause from Johnny almost provided a nonverbal answer, but a more explanatory one came shortly thereafter.

"Not too well."

Something dangerous in his tone warned Edgar that this was the ultimate understatement. He noticed at this point Johnny almost seemed to be wheezing or lisping. That was peculiar.

"How so? What happened?"

_You idiot, don't ask!_

He could hear Johnny breathing on the other end of the line, then what sounded like a moist cough. "Things didn't work out quite like I planned."

Another vast understatement. Edgar steeled himself, then finally spoke, his voice again taking on the calm and level tone he had used with Johnny before. "Is she dead?"

Another long pause. Johnny's response was quiet and interspersed with another moist cough. "Actually...no."

Edgar was almost as confused as Johnny sounded. "Does...wait. No?"

"No."

"But it didn't go well?"

"...No."

Confusion. "So what happened exactly?"

The sudden realization of what he was doing hit Edgar as Johnny took a breath to explain._ Why am I talking to him? He tried to kill me! Why aren't I hanging up?_

"She..." Johnny paused for such a long time at this point Edgar almost wanted to ask if he was still there. He could still hear him breathing, but apparently Johnny was thinking to himself. "It..." Another long pause. "I'm not..."

Edgar tried to guess at what happened and found nothing came to mind. The girl had lived but the date had gone badly. Why?

"Did...um..." Now he felt awkward that he interrupted Johnny's silence. That was a first for him. "She..."

Johnny just remained silent, as if hoping that Edgar could guess the remainder of the story so he would not have to explain. Edgar struggled to think of a plausible explanation until Johnny let loose a tiny expletive.

"What? What's wrong?" _What am I doing? Why do I care?_

"My hand." Another short, soft expletive. "Hold on."

Another long silence. What was he doing? Had he cut his hand?

Had _she_ cut his hand?

...She fought back.

Edgar snapped his fingers, locking onto that thought and elaborating on it. Johnny must have tried to kill her when the girl decided to try and resist. If she was still alive, she must have escaped. Or something like that.

"Are you okay?" He felt better now that he had a logical guess as to what happened, but he did not feel confident enough to mention it. "What happened?"

Johnny was silent for a few moments before his voice returned to the phone. "Just a scratch, it's nothing...I'll take care of it."

"What happened to her?"

A very long silence followed this. Edgar sat down on his bed as he waited, not sure if Johnny could either work up the courage or find the words to respond. He looked at his own hands before self-consciously raising one to his face, fingertips finding the marks underneath his eyes. Scabbed over, but more than capable of generating him an unwelcome amount of attention.

_Don't forget how you got those._

"She escaped, didn't she?"

_Why did you say that?_

Another pause, then Johnny's voice came to him, soft but still menacing. "Yes."

"So what happened to you?" Following his original hypothesis, Johnny had to be injured in the ensuing scuffle. Feeling a bit more emboldened at such a non-threatening answer, he waited with slightly less fear for Johnny's response.

It was a long time in coming.

"Goodbye, Edgar."

There was a click.

Edgar pulled the phone away and stared at it in confusion. Unable to come up with any reason other than Johnny's relative instability, Edgar shrugged and hung up the phone, sighing and holding his head.

Hopefully, this would be the last he would hear from him.

* * *

It was only a day later when the phone rang again. This time it sounded when Edgar was sitting up in bed, staring at nothing. Edgar had been sleeping fitfully lately, his dreams incomprehensible and meaningless, and he found himself waking up at regular intervals. This had never happened before, but considering what he had been through, he decided that it was only natural.

He also began to notice that he was beginning to lose his patience with things faster than he normally did. Edgar was normally a very tolerant person and slow to anger, but lately something was grating on his nerves. He could not place exactly what it was, but something in the back of his mind was making things more...irritating than they had ever been before. He blamed it on stress, but that wasn't an entirely satisfactory conclusion.

Interestingly, when his phone rang, he found that his fear response had lessened somewhat. He was fairly sure now that Johnny wanted to keep his distance, judging from how reticent he was during their last conversation.

That was perfectly fine with Edgar.

As it was, he was not reaching out to the man, but if Johnny wanted to reach out to him in such a...distant manner, then Edgar was okay with it.

As long as it did not involve the threat of death.

"Edgar?" He never seemed to say hello.

Still a slight tinge of fear at his voice. He thought he had gotten over that. "...Hello, Nny."

Johnny was silent for some time, apparently thinking of something to say. Or trying to remember what he was going to say in the first place. Edgar was becoming used to these long pauses and sat down, letting his eyes rove lazily around the room as he waited.

"What are you doing?"

That was peculiar. Johnny had never showed interested in anyone's life but his own. Edgar warily tried to think of an appropriate response. "I was...sleeping." Edgar smiled at his own words. "But I'm awake now."

_You don't want to know. Don't you say a word-_

"So what are you doing?"

_What's wrong with you?_

There was another pause from the end of the line. He could hear a faint rustling and guessed that maybe Johnny had run a hand through his hair or rifled through some papers. Or something. "...I'm thinking."

That came as no surprise.

"What happened?"

_You idiot. About what, not what happened-_

"People."

"Ah." Edgar recalled Johnny asking him that simple question that Edgar had no answer to. He guessed that the man had again become some unknowing victim to humankind. At least in his perspective. Edgar had troubles believing that every person that Johnny killed had personally wronged him in some way. After all, he hadn't done anything to Johnny and had recieved two lovely scars for it. "How so?"

"They..." Johnny paused. "First they talked too much, then...they...they kind of made sense."

Edgar had to think about this for a moment before he could realize how strange that would have seemed to Johnny. "Made sense...? Was it something like..."

_No, don't mention it. That would be awkward._

"Was it something like with me? Like...how you didn't want to kill me?"

_Great._

A shorter pause this time. "No. So far no one's been..." Johnny paused again. "I haven't found anyone like you lately."

Edgar took that as the closest thing Johnny could get to admitting he was wrong.

"But these people..." Johnny's voice took on a dangerous edge, one that Edgar recognized easily. "These people just wouldn't _shut up_...and after a while I almost heard things that...almost made sense."

No wonder he was confused.

"They made you feel bad about killing them?"

_You're just not getting better at this._

"No..." Johnny hesitated for a moment. "They made me think about...myself in a way. It was...uncomfortable."

_How to respond...Think quickly, Edgar._

"I guess I can understand that."

_Brilliant._

Johnny paused again before letting loose a soft sigh. "And another time...I was talking to this girl who was so beautiful outside but so ugly inside...and it came to me...you...that I'm..."

Johnny drifted off, almost as if into his own thoughts, but Edgar found it easy to complete the sentence.

"Again, that's...I guess that's kind of understandable." Edgar winced at his own words, but he did not feel comfortable lying about how he felt about Johnny's homicidal tendencies. "But..." He did not want to make Johnny angry...how to phrase this? "It's hard to...it's difficult to really look at yourself."

_You should write fortune cookies._

_Shut up._

It took him a minute to realize he had been talking to himself.

"...I'm thinking of maybe going out to get something to drink."

Edgar's eyes widened and he sat up properly, again looking out his window nervously. This couldn't be an invitation. _Please_ don't let it be an invitation.

_Focus on the more present problem. Encourage him to go and possibly kill more people or tell him to stay home and quietly go insane?_

"How long has it been?"

_What kind of question is that?_

"I...don't know." Another slight pause. "Time...it's hard for me to keep track of things sometimes."

"Interesting you would keep track of me."

_Why did you say that? You're doing a lovely job of making your own noose here, Edgar._

_Shut up!_

Johnny was silent for a while. "That...it's..." He paused again, apparently planning out his words a little better. "Why did you..."

_You just killed yourself._

"I'm..." Edgar struggled to think of some way to erase the question. "I think, uh...I think you should go."

_Why!_

"Oh." Johnny paused again. "...Think so?"

_No._

"Why not? You wouldn't...well, there wouldn't be too much human interaction I think..."

_What about the clerk, you idiot?_

_Shut up!_

"It wouldn't take too long either...and you do need to eat, so...I guess you should do it."

"Oh." Johnny almost seemed confused. It had been a while since he had heard that tone...very reminiscient of when he escaped...

How long ago was that?

"Is it alright..." Johnny paused again and Edgar leaned back on the bed, closing his eyes and sighing. How long would it be this time?

A few minutes. "You...this late at night...no one really...I mean, is it alright..."

"To keep calling me?" Edgar finished, trying to be helpful. He rubbed at his temples, feeling a headache coming on. "I guess. It...does make things more interesting."

_I can't believe you just said that._

"Alright." Johnny paused for only a few seconds this time. "Goodbye."

Click.

Edgar put the phone back into its cradle and leaned back downwards, staring at the ceiling. He could not understand why he was doing this. Why was this happening? Why couldn't he just hang up?

Was he scared that Johnny could track him down and perhaps, kill him for real this time? After all, he had tracked him and kidnapped him before and Edgar had no memory of what had happened. Johnny could find him at any time, so he might as well indulge him.

Yes, that had to be the reason. It made the most sense.

Edgar rolled over and closed his eyes, but again sleep had trouble coming to him and he woke up only an hour later. He drifted in and out of sleep until his alarm clock went off and Edgar shuffled his way towards another day.

* * *

The next night, the phone rang again. Edgar had finally fallen asleep for once and the ringing of the phone proved to be extremely irritating. He rolled over and grabbed it, mumbling a quick greeting as he fumbled for his glasses.

"Hello."

"Edgar."

Pause.

"I killed him."

Edgar was not surprised, only sighing in what he found to be a vaguely disappointed way. "The clerk, right?"

"Yes."

Edgar put his glasses on, staring at his dark room as he shifted himself upwards in his bed. Johnny actually sounded almost pleased."Why?"

"He didn't give me what I wanted. But actually that was okay because they had Cherry Fiz-wiz instead." Edgar hadn't heard this manic tone in a while. Johnny paused as if in thought for a few seconds. "I wish I knew that before I shot him."

Edgar sighed, rubbing at his head once again. Another headache. These were getting more and more frequent.

_How can he not feel bad about this?_

_He's insane, you idiot._

"You sound...happier than usual."

"Do I?" Johnny now sounded genuinely confused. "I...I did get Fiz-wiz, so why not?" Just as Johnny seemed to immerse himself in his own depression at times, it seemed he was enjoying his momentary happiness with the same abandon. "I guess I am happy."

"Well, that's good to hear." Edgar tried to keep his thoughts off of the dead clerk. "It's nice to know that things are going...that things are brightening for you, I guess."

It was late. That was his excuse.

"They won't stay this way for long, but it is nice." He heard a slurping noise on the other end. "Things never stay nice for me. That's kind of why I killed him, now that I think about it."

Edgar sighed to himself. "Just frustrated?"

_Interesting guess._

"Yes." Slight pause. "Yes, that's what it was, I guess. I don't like guns."

"Why'd you shoot him then?"

_As if it wasn't blindingly obvious._

"It was there."

"Ah." Edgar rubbed at his eyes for a moment, struggling to stay awake. He had finally drifted off to sleep and despite the nature of what Nny was telling him, he still felt rather tired. "I guess that makes sense."

Johnny was silent for a little while. "I guess I...just wanted to tell someone."

An interesting thought struck Edgar. Was Johnny lonely? Was that why he kept on calling him? No...he had wanted advice, that was why he spoke with him originally. Why would Johnny be...

No, that was a question with an obvious answer. Johnny killed everyone he got near in one way or another. Of course he was lonely.

He could hear the smile in Johnny's voice. "It does get kind of boring just talking to yourself."

"Right..." Edgar mumbled, although he still felt very unsettled. The thought of Johnny being lonely...why did that bother him so much?

What if Johnny wanted to see Edgar again? What if he woke up and found Johnny in his room?

_This wouldn't have happened if you had just hung up originally._

What he had said to Johnny had been true. These phonecalls did make his life more interesting. But Edgar was not sure that was exactly what he wanted.

"You seem like a nice person." Edgar recalled Johnny mentioning this before during their initial conversation. "I'm glad I didn't kill you after all."

When Johnny seemed cheerful, he talked more. Edgar ran a hand through his hair again nervously, glancing out the window. "Yeah...me too."

_God, that's awkward._

Edgar winced at his own words before trying to bring attention from them with a short laugh. "Sorry...it's kind of late. I'm probably not making a lot of sense..."

"No, that's okay. I know." Shorter pauses now. Fewer in number as well. "You do make sense sometimes."

Coming from Johnny, that was a compliment. "Thanks."

The pauses abruptly returned, but Edgar imagined that Johnny probably had the same confused look on his face that he had when Edgar had originally thanked him.

"If...you don't mind...I mean..." Edgar fell back onto his pillows, pressing his arm against his eyes. "I mean...it's kind of more pleasant to talk to you when you're like this."

Silence. Edgar winced, wondering just what it was that he had just done.

"You know...when you talk back."

Edgar, again, laughed in a way that he helped would emphasize the intended levity of his words. Silence for a short period.

"It..." Slight hesitation. "I guess."

"Sorry." Edgar stifled a yawn. "I didn't mean it like that. I am kind of tired, so I guess..." Edgar was not sure how to finish his sentence. "But I'm glad you're happy."

_Why? Why does that matter to you? It won't stop him killing people, you know._

_It might._

"Really?" Not a genuine question but an initial response. Then he could hear the rare amusement in Johnny's voice again. "It's rare. But it is nice...to really feel happy. It's...it normally doesn't happen to me."

"I know, I think you mentioned that before..." Edgar just barely muffled another yawn. "But it's nice to know that it does happen."

_Now let's all skip off to gumdrop land with the happy magic elves._

_God, shut up. When did I get so sarcastic?_

"Yeah..." Johnny trailed off, although he did sound satisfied. The awkwardness that was previously present in his voice was gone now, but Edgar was not sure how long this would last. "I guess."

"I'm really tired though, Nny..." Edgar hoped Johnny would not take this the wrong way. "I just got to sleep recently...I've been having trouble sleeping lately..."

_Don't tell him anything about yourself._

_Why does it matter?_

"Oh." Johnny sounded thoughtful for a moment. Edgar sighed and rolled over to face the phone, prepared to hang up. "Alright."

_I hope I didn't ruin his good mood._

"Bye, Nny."

"Goodbye."

Edgar hung up and then rolled back the other way, wondering about his own motivations. Everything logical told him to stop answering his phone, to stop playing along with Johnny, and yet something kept him speaking, kept him from hanging up...

There was something in him, something that he could not consciously recognize, that seemed to accept Johnny. Almost...to study him. Edgar recoiled against such an idea, feeling that it demeaned Johnny and reflected badly on him, but at the moment he could not understand. What kept him there?

What kept him awake at night?

Why did Johnny call him so much?

Why didn't _Edgar_ feel lonely? If even sociopathic misfits could feel lonely, then what was wrong with Edgar? Why did he never reach out like even _Johnny_ could do?

Why didn't he feel that need?

Something had to be wrong with him, but Edgar did not know what. Struggling to focus on something else, Edgar eventually fell asleep.


	3. Café

Ring.

"Hello, Nny."

"Want to go dancing?"

Edgar stood numbly in shock for a few minutes before he could finally force himself to react, finding himself pressing a hand to his head in confusion. Finally he remembered his silence and struggled to find a response.

"I'm sorry, what?"

Edgar's mind went through every expletive he knew in rapid succession as he hoped that what he initially heard had just been a joke by an overly tired brain.

"Dancing. Want to go dancing?"

_No, he wasn't kidding._

"Um..." Edgar found his body rushing with adrenaline and he could almost feel himself panicking as he tried to think of something to say. Alternate situations ran through his mind.

_Go with Nny get killed stay home get killed go with Nny get trapped in his house get killed god everything ends with me DYING_

"This is...kind of sudden." Edgar ran a hand through his hair with quick, nervous energy, looking all around his room as if expecting Johnny to already be there. "I mean..."

"Well, you said it yourself...I'm not happy very often." The excitement and contentment in Johnny's voice was indeed, extremely rare. The thought of going off somewhere intensely pleased him. "So I wanted to go somewhere and have fun."

"Why me?"

_You already know the answer._

Johnny paused for only a few moments. "Who else would I ask?"

Edgar had no response for that. In fact, Johnny asking him seemed to make perfect sense. He was the closest thing...actually, no, he _was_ Johnny's friend at this point. Why _not_ ask him to go and have fun with him?

_ Because he's a PSYCHOTIC MURDERER_

_Shut up! This isn't helping!_

"Why..." Edgar searched around the room as if an answer to his situation was there. "Um, I mean...it...you never wanted to..."

_God, if he sees me again, he's going to kill me._

"I..." Johnny paused again, then a peculiar tone entered his voice. "The thought just came to me. So." 

_You can't say 'no,' Edgar. If you do, he'll think you hate him and kill you. He does know where you live._

_What am I supposed to do, say yes? I'll die anyway!_

_Ah, but you don't know that. Maybe you'll get lucky. Again. It's your only chance at this point._

"Um..." Edgar coughed slightly to clear the nervousness from his voice. "When?"

_ I can't believe this._

"Just wait outside."

Edgar nodded dumbly before finding his voice again. The word jumped from his mouth awkwardly. "Alright."

There was a click at the other end of the line and Edgar hung up the phone slowly.

Almost as if something within him had decided to turn on, Edgar felt a sudden passive resignation in regarding his situation. Why was he so worried? He had nothing to lose anyway...like he had told Johnny before, he had nothing to fear from death.

However, he still feared Johnny.

This passively accepting part of him, the part that had allowed him to wait patiently for death that never came some time before, allowed him to get dressed and ready without having a complete nervous breakdown.

_ I can't believe this._

__  


* * *

  


It was a relatively average night. Not too cold or too warm, clear without many clouds. There was almost nothing memorable about that night at all. Other than what transpired then.

Irony had been no stranger to Edgar recently.

The weather was lost on Edgar except that he unconsciously put on a trench-coat before he headed out. He wasn't even aware he was wearing it until much later.

He walked out in front of his complex, finding the streets primarily empty. It was not too late at night, but Edgar did not live in an active neighborhood anyway. He felt incredibly small and alone as he ventured out onto the sidewalk hesitantly, aware of every movement that he was making as he looked back and forth, scanning the street repeatedly for Johnny.

Maybe Johnny wouldn't show. That'd be wonderful. Then he could just go back inside and maybe he would not have to do this after all...

Feeling panic rising up in him again, Edgar struggled to relocate the passive side of him that allowed him peace in the most stressful of situations. It took some effort to find but once he allowed it to take control of him, he settled down. He was even able to breathe at a normal pace.

As he stood underneath a streetlight, his hands tucked into his pockets, he stared at the faces of the few who passed by him carefully, as if he would not recognize Johnny the moment he saw him.

You don't come face to face with death and then forget what he looks like.

Sighing softly to himself, Edgar leaned back against the metal pole, moving his attention downwards, staring down at his shoes distractedly. Filled with nervous energy, he felt conflicted and trapped. How much longer would this take...? Anticipation was only making this worse...

He remembered the noise vaguely from when he had first struggled to wake from unconsciousness in that dark basement. The distinctive sound that Johnny's unique boots made as he walked. However, this was not what alerted him to Johnny's presence initially.

He had been leaning against the pole silently when he felt a sudden prickling all over his body. He could feel the hairs on his arm rising and he shivered slightly.

Although cliché, it was almost accurate to say it was the equivalent of someone walking over Edgar's grave. A phrase that meant more than he would have liked at that time.

When he felt the shivering goosebumps come over him, he knew that Johnny was near. He knew before he heard him, but he was not sure why. He turned and watched as Johnny slowly came into view.

The man had his hands in his pockets as well, although there was a thin black cord leading from his small earphones down into one of them. He was bobbing back and forth just slightly, soft and slow movements. The expression on his face was one that Edgar could only guess from what he had heard over the phone. It was the contented, happy expression that he had never seen.

It was not frightening like the manic smile he had seen before. But it was unnerving. It seemed very out of place on someone like Johnny.

As Johnny came closer to him, Edgar found that he had unconsciously raised one of his hands to again to feel underneath his eyes. This was becoming a habit.

For a moment, he felt a sharp renewal of stinging as his fingers grazed the wounds, but Edgar wrote it off as superstition and fear and forced his hand downward.

Johnny continued walking, almost making his way past Edgar before he halted, staring off into space thoughtfully until he turned to face him. One hand came free from his pocket, the thin claw-like fingers pointing at him lazily.

Johnny smiled in the peculiarly psychotic way that Edgar was, sadly, familiar with.

"Edgar, right?"

"Yes." This was becoming familiar. "Nny."

Johnny paused, tilting his head for a moment, looking at him. Thankfully the distant, appraising look from his capture was gone. Johnny only looked curious. "Wh..." He snapped his fingers. "Right. I remember now."

Not surprisingly, Edgar felt a tinge of irritation and indignance at the fact that Johnny had forgotten about the marks under his eyes. This very quickly subsided into quiet acceptance.

_What did you expect?_

Edgar looked around nervously, although he was not sure for what. "Where are we going?"

Johnny stared at him, studying how he was reacting in a very amused fashion. He was still smiling in that psychotic way as well. Edgar felt increasingly uncomfortable.

"The club."

"Yes...but which one?"

Johnny watched Edgar for a few moments before he slowly turned in a circle, his arms outstretched. He turned back to Edgar, enjoying the confused expression on his face. "There are so many."

Johnny had to know he was doing this. He had to be aware that he was confusing and frightening Edgar to no end. With the slight bit of resolve that had formed out of his previous indignation, Edgar decided he wouldn't give Johnny that satisfaction.

"There's one a few blocks from here..." Edgar turned and pointed with one hand, although he was roughly estimating. He had never been in that club, but he had passed it several times. "That's always an option."

"Good point." Slowly the smile on Johnny's face became more natural as he turned in the direction Edgar had indicated. His hand returned to his pocket and Edgar could hear the faintly muffled strains of music coming from Johnny's earphones.

As Johnny started walking, Edgar had no choice but to follow.

_Why did he invite you along if he's just going to ignore you?_

_I don't know._

_That's a first._

* * *

Sometimes, a small thing can alter fate. Something like the flap of a butterfly's wing can change things across the world. The paradox of alternate realities, the many chances and things that could and might have been. If only one thing had happened or the other, if only one change, one moment could be redone, then maybe things would have been different. If you could go back and relive that moment and do something differently, history as you know it may have been changed.

So much depends on so little.

Sometimes, a little thing can change something. Something that you may never have thought of. Something unexpected, unnoticed. Something like, say, a person's presence, can change how history was supposed to occur. Can alter fate's chosen path.

However, this was not one of those times.

The two of them were walking some distance apart, mainly by Johnny's choosing, when they happened to pass a café.

Edgar was not sure if Johnny could hear, considering how loud he had his music, but apparently some higher power had decided that Johnny would indeed, hear what the people outside the café had to say.

"Excuse me?"

Both of them paused in response to the short question. Johnny stood completely still, staring at them with a kind of expectancy while Edgar hovered behind him, again finding himself filled with nervous energy. While Johnny was merely confused at the question, Edgar was immediately concerned for the speaking person's safety.

If Edgar was not safe with Johnny, this person _certainly_ was not.

"Yes?" Johnny's voice held more malice than he had used with Edgar. Had he lightened his voice to speak with him or did he already find this person irritating? It was hard to tell.

"Hey, do you have a cigarette?"

That was a fairly innocent question. Edgar's hopes for the conversation brightened somewhat.

"No, I don't smoke."

The man turned towards Edgar, who, at a loss for words, could only shake his head in response.

A very short silence ensued which Johnny apparently interpreted as the end of the conversation. As Johnny began walking again, the man turned to one of his companions.

"Did you hear that? Fags don't smoke."

Johnny _did_ hear that.

_That was an interesting choice of words._

_Why are you thinking of that NOW?_

Johnny stopped dead, turning and walking back to the table slowly. The two present stared up at him smugly, apparently fully aware of what impact their words were meant to have.

Irony was no stranger tonight. At that moment, Edgar was more frightened than either of the two sitting at the table could have or should have been.

Johnny stared at them silently, apparently trying to decide what to do or say. It was somewhat reminiscient of the expression and inner conflict he had felt over his decision to not kill Edgar originally.

Of course, Edgar doubted that 'not killing someone' was an option at this point.

The silence seemed to drag on forever and Edgar felt his skin prickling again. Despite his internal reaction, he found that his passive side had managed to retain control with his facial features. This actually proved beneficial as Johnny turned to stare at him, studying his expression carefully.

It was a good thing he did not look frightened. He seriously doubted it would help.

_Quick, think of something to say._

Edgar shrugged.

_I can't even think of any words to respond to that._

Johnny moved his dark eyes from Edgar to the people at the table several times, much to their general amusement, as he apparently finally decided something. His gaze settled on the two who still looked back at them mockingly.

"I was just going to pass this place by, in favor of the dance-club up the street. I'll do the club tomorrow."

Danger. Danger in every single syllable.

Edgar recognized that tone of voice.

Johnny turned to Edgar once again, staring at him silently, struggling to control the frustration and anger in his face without success. Edgar did not know how to interpret his silence, but simply stared back at him, again at a loss for words.

Johnny's eyes narrowed and Edgar watched his fist clench tightly. Unable to halt his natural reaction, Edgar unconsciously took a step backwards, not wanting to be close to Johnny at this moment.

"I'd stay out here if I were you."

Still dangerous, sharp words, but Johnny's voice changed tone subtly when he spoke to him. Not that Edgar was in the most rational of mindsets at that moment to truly analyze it. He only nodded in response. The two at the table found this amusing, smirking to themselves as Johnny made his way into the café with very slow, deliberate steps, his hands held behind his back.

Edgar was not taking any chances.

Ignoring the jibes of the two left outside, he struggled to walk away calmly. He did not stop until he was almost a block away, looking back occasionally to watch the area he had left with a sense of foreboding. How far would be a safe distance? If Johnny was about to go on a rampage, and it was made incredibly clear to Edgar that that was exactly what he was going to do, how far would Edgar have to go?

He did not want it to look as if he had run away. That would not look favorably on him. Then again, he did not want to be unintentionally killed by accident. Despite Johnny's supposed friendship with him, Edgar did not trust him at all. Especially concerning his life.

Finally idling to a stop, he found himself wondering about what had happened. Why had those two lashed out at them without any motivation...?

Something within him told Edgar that it was not anything they had specifically done. Johnny had spoken about the general hatefulness of human nature...it had become something of a fixation for him. While Johnny did seem to be insane, it seemed that sometimes his crimes were not entirely without motive.

Something peculiar...something strange. Edgar almost felt that, if he had not been passing by with Johnny, this would not have happened. Those two at the café would have looked at him and looked away. Edgar was that normal...but something about Johnny...something about him seemed to attract these terrible people.

That was an interesting theory for his psychosis anyway. In a way, then maybe it was not Johnny's fault afterall.

That was an uncomfortable idea.

Edgar sat down, back against another streetlight, as he could faintly hear the screams of the dying and the living from the ill-fated café.

Slight guilt.

_Was there anything I could have done to prevent this?_

_Better question - would I really have wanted to?_

Edgar looked upwards, as if to find the source of his now constant inner voice, but, as expected, found nothing. "I've got to stop talking to myself..."

_That was ironic._

_Shut up._

An explosion rocked the street and Edgar could see Johnny's silhouetted gleefully against the billowing smoke.

With another sigh, Edgar crossed his arms over his knees.

_Definitely not a good idea._

__  


* * *

  


"I like your coat."

"Hn?" Edgar turned towards him. The first words from Johnny since the slaughter were the last thing that he expected. "My...?"

Edgar looked down and he was, indeed, wearing his trenchcoat. When had he put this on? That was disconcerting.

"Oh...thank you, I guess."

Johnny had met up with him after the explosion as if nothing had happened, although he did seem a lot happier afterwards. In fact, he was more pleased than he had seemed at the beginning of the night.

Killing made him feel good.

That was a disturbing thought.

Johnny had not spoken with Edgar, but his expression told him that Edgar was, for the moment, safe. The fact that Johnny had voluntarily joined his company again implied that Johnny still wanted to be around him, although Edgar could not think of a reason why.

And so silence had reigned between them as they had walked away. Edgar could not hear Johnny's music through his headphones, but he guessed that he had it on. The pauses were painful to Edgar, almost begging for him to fill them with something, but they had no effect on Johnny. Then again, he seemed to be familiar with long silences, as their conversations on the phone had proved.

The first words out of Johnny's mouth since the massacre had been about his coat. Edgar's coat that he did not even remember putting on.

_This has to be the most bizarre night of my life._

"I always wanted a coat like that." Johnny's tone was light and carefree, much along the same tone he used when speaking about the deceased clerk at the convenience store. "I could never find one."

Edgar wasn't sure how to respond, then decided that he should at least try to sound natural. "They're not too hard to find...I have the receipt somewhere, I'm sure...I can always look it up for you later."

"Later, yes..."

_You just said you wanted to see him later._

_...I did, didn't I?_

"Where are we going now?" Although Edgar had been walking alongside Johnny, he was still following his lead. He had not felt comfortable asking where they were going considering the awkward silence, but now that it had been broken... "We aren't going to still go dancing, right?"

Still go dancing sounded so...awkward.

"N..." Johnny apparently had not thought of this. "No. I don't feel like it anymore. But we can still do something tonight, I guess."

He had no other plans.

It was only Edgar's familiarity with popular culture's portrayal of relationships that gave him a frame of reference. The idea that Johnny was not familiar with them. Then again, Edgar was not a social butterfly by any means.

"Where _are_ we going, though?"

This was followed by silence, Johnny walking alongside him, hunched over, hands still tucked into his pockets. He stared fixedly at his boots as they rose and fell on the sidewalk.

_So...this is what he does during those silences._

Edgar usually found something in his room to toy with while he waited for Johnny to say something, but this time he only had the repetitive motion of walking. Unsatisfied, he took off his glasses, rubbing non-existant dirt off of them, before replacing them again, hoping that the silence would not last much longer.

_It's so much more uncomfortable in person..._

Johnny twitched slightly and he turned to Edgar, the pleased look still present. It was comforting in a way, but seemed so unnatural. "There's something I want to pick up at the house..."

"Oh..."

_Here's your chance. Pay attention to how you got here and maybe..._

_...How did I get here?_

_Figures._

"Alright."

"There's always the movies..." Johnny sounded incredibly distant, apparently the thought having reminded him of something else, something distracting. "I'm sure there's something on tonight..."

"Alright." Edgar was not really a movie person, but he was not about to refuse. "Fine with me."

Johnny smiled to himself in response, and the two continued in silence.

Try as he may, Edgar could not find any landmarks as he walked along. Nothing looked familiar to him and everything was so nondescript, he could not mark anything for future reference. They had walked down so many streets during that first long silence that he had not been paying attention. He was not sure where they were now and he was positive that he could not remember their path.

_I hope I'll be able to get home..._

Edgar could again hear faint music coming from Johnny's direction. In a way, it seemed that Edgar was alone again. That was alright.

He did not want to go back to Johnny's house, but if it was only to retrieve something that seemed to be alright. He didn't want to spend too much time in there, if at all possible.

So far, this night had not gone too badly for him personally. Instantly recoiling at the thought, Edgar sought to justify it in a more logical way.

An unknown amount of people had been killed, but that had not been Edgar's fault and there was nothing he could have done. So...on the whole, the night had not been too bad.

He stood on the doorstop as Johnny opened his front door, standing there silently for a moment. Was he letting Edgar in first? That was...peculiar.

The house was still the same and still smelt of death, blood, and cherries, although there were new blood stains on the carpet and some glass shards scattered around. The decaying rabbit was still attached to one wall, along with the other bizarre odds and ends that Johnny had collected over time.

So far, nothing had changed.

Once Johnny got whatever it was he needed, Edgar would be able to leave and the night would continue on as usual. They would go see a movie, say goodbye to one another, and Edgar would make his way home without incident, hopefully having something close to a good time in the process.

Maybe this wasn't such a bad idea after all.

The first crushing blow to the back of Edgar's head was enough to cause him intense pain, a sudden loss of vision, and an incredible sense of vertigo, but it was not enough to render him unconscious. Edgar was dimly aware of crying out shortly in pain in response to the attack, able to faintly recall seeing the stained carpet heading up towards him before the second strike fell.

Two was enough.


	4. Bonk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note - Yeah, Devi DID ask Nny out first. That's what I get for not having the comic with me when I started this originally. Sorry about that.

Johnny knelt near Edgar's body, lowering the Happy Noodle Boy statue to the ground.

So that thing did have a purpose after all.

"I thought it would only take one."

Well, it wasn't important. Edgar was unconscious now and that was what mattered anyway.

Johnny noted the man's glasses lying a short distance away from him, apparently jarred loose from the initial impact. He leaned over and carefully lifted them from the ground, folding them and placing them off to one side. He didn't want those to get broken by accident.

There was enough broken glass around anyway.

"Nny, what are you doing?" Nail Bunny again. The simple question helped remind Johnny of what his action's intended purpose was. He always tended to get caught up in them after a while.

He stared down at Edgar, who had fallen with one arm trapped underneath his body, the other curled around his head. He was bleeding from a wound that was almost hidden underneath his hair. Johnny felt disgust rising in him in response.

They didn't usually bleed either. This was uncomfortable.

"Nny?"

Right.

"I'm not quite sure." He was sure he had a plan originally, but he had gotten so involved in knocking Edgar unconscious that he had kind of forgotten it. He was sure he could think of another one if he had to...

"Are you going to kill him?" One of the doughboys.

"I don't know. Should I?"

"You don't need any blood right now," Nail Bunny pointed out. "Remember those girl scouts?"

Johnny raised a hand to his mouth in thought. "That's right..."

"But you should preserve him, Nny. Like you should have with her." He recognized this argument. "Think about it...a friend trapped perfectly in time, unable to ever betray you..."

"Wait." Nail Bunny apparently did not like this idea, struggling a moment for the right words. "I could understand that argument for Devi, but not for Edgar."

"What do you mean?" Johnny settled back onto his heels, keeping his eyes away from the darkness seeping from underneath Edgar's hair.

"Well, with Devi you had a perfect relationship going. You were really happy, remember? She was everything to you."

Johnny did remember with a great deal of sadness and regret. These emotions were quickly erased as he tried to refocus on the conversation. "Yes...? I don't quite see your point."

"Edgar's far from a perfect friend to you, Nny. He's terrified of you."

Johnny turned back to Edgar, reaching out one hand carefully. He knew that Edgar would not be getting up soon, but that wasn't why he moved so slowly. He lifted one of Edgar's hands from the floor with two fingertips before letting it fall back down again. As if there had not been a pause at all, Johnny finally responded, his simple question sincere.

"Really?"

"You've only met twice. The first time you tried to kill him. The second time you've knocked him unconscious. This isn't perfect, Nny."

This was starting to make sense.

"He's afraid of you and he doesn't trust you. Not like she did. She did trust you, but you made a bad decision there that I don't think you should make again. You shouldn't even consider freezing Edgar now. It wouldn't be a pleasant image."

Johnny sat with his hand again raised to his mouth as he stared off into the distance, thinking hard.

"What should I do?"

"Well..." Nail Bunny was silent for a few moments. "I guess you could try to make your relationship perfect, although in general I would recommend not killing him at all-"

"You can't _have_ a perfect relationship, Nny." The doughboys finally decided to return to the conversation, D-boy deciding to take the initiative. "Everything gets ruined in the end. You know that. The only time that you'll ever stop fucking things up is when you die."

"I like it." Mr. Eff phrased his words carefully, trying to sound somewhat sincere. "Imagine! Just like all the other ones, those beautiful frozen memories. We could add a _friend_ to that list. I think that would be marvelous."

Mr. Eff thought nothing of the kind, but Johnny did not need to know that.

"What should I do?" Johnny said again.

"First...I'd recommend taking care of what you did to the back of his head." Johnny glanced in Nail Bunny's direction. "When he wakes up, you should try to make him trust you."

"Trust me? Why would-..." Johnny smiled in a twisted way. "_I_ don't even trust me."

"Try at least. Maybe Edgar will be that perfect friend you always said you wanted."

"Maybe..."

"This is foolish. You know it'll just disintegrate like everything else, turn into nothing more than ashes in a jar."

"No, I think there's a chance here." Mr. Eff had a smile in his voice. "A chance for something truly interesting."

* * *

Scratch scratch scratch.

Todd huddled underneath his sheets, clutching Shmee to him in terror. He squeezed his eyes shut, repeating a simple mantra in his mind.

_Please let it be the wind, let it be the wind, let it be the wind..._

Scratch scratch scratch.

"Squee?"

Todd gulped and finally sat up, Shmee held tightly in his arms as he turned towards the window. Sure enough, the scary neighbor man was there, standing and waving to him with fake cheer. If that was supposed to be comforting, it certainly failed in that regard.

Johnny pointed to the window and Todd reluctantly made his way out of bed, unlatching the window. His parents had not appreciated how his previous one had been broken and besides...Johnny would find a way in whether Todd let him in or not.

Johnny did not enter when Todd opened the window, instead leaning against the sill and trying to feign nonchalance.

"You don't have a Band-Aid, do you?"

Todd stared at Johnny, trying to hide his fear and failing remarkably. "Did you hurt someone?"

Johnny paused at this question, looking back towards his house for a moment before returning his eyes to the boy. He seemed confused for a moment, but that faded quickly. "I changed my mind. Do you have one?"

Todd, in fact, had a variety of things stored beneath his bed just in case an emergency should arise. Considering the amount of incredibly bizarre and scary things that happened to Todd on an almost daily basis, he found it necessary to at least try to prepare. Dealing with Johnny was becoming a regular event in his life as well, which was another reason why Todd has assembled a small first-aid kit underneath his bed.

Besides, Shmee said it was a good idea.

Todd rummaged through the shoe box carefully, noting some items had mysteriously gone missing. That did not surprise him. He could explain his lack of gauze and other larger bandages, however; Johnny had taken those when he had visited him again after he had gotten into a fight with someone. Or something like that.

Finding a small tin of bandages, he handed them over to Johnny warily, not trusting the bright smile that lit up his face on receiving them.

"Thanks, Squeegee."

Thankfully, that seemed to be all that Johnny wanted from him at that moment, and the man left, allowing Todd to shut and lock the window immediately afterwards.

As he crawled back into bed, his back turned to the wall and Shmee protecting his chest, he wondered why he even bothered to shut the window at all.

It didn't really seem to help.

* * *

Johnny entered the house, stepping over Edgar's body as he made his way to the couch. He opened the tin of bandages with a jerk.

"So you _are_ going to help him?"

"Our friendship isn't perfect, remember? For once I want _something_ to be perfect." Johnny pulled out several bandages between his fingers, dropping them onto the couch. He stared at them for a moment before he simply upended the tin entirely, dumping all of the prepackaged strips onto the thick cushions. A few bounced off and disappeared into the cracks of the couch and a few fell on the floor, but the majority stayed where they had fallen. Johnny stared at them as if they were the cause of his general unhappiness. "Just once I want something to not end up..." Johnny grasped feebly for words before giving up, grabbing a handful of the bandages as he made his way back over to the unconscious figure on the floor.

"Just once."

"This may be your only chance. You can't mess this one up, Nny."

"I know that." Johnny sat down irritably beside Edgar's body, noticing that the blood had stopped oozing. That seemed like a good sign. He freed one bandage from its wrapper and moved Edgar's hair out of the way, studying the wound with his best attempt at clinical detachment.

Johnny was not skilled at dressing wounds. He had managed to take care of himself when he was injured before, but he guessed that some of his recuperative abilities had been due to his seeming inability to die. He had no idea how to take care of other people, but he could guess.

Besides, it gave him something to focus on.

After clumsily bandaging Edgar's head, Johnny sat amidst the wrappers, brushing them off of his clothes and his skin with irritation.

"You should put him on the couch. Maybe he'll wake up."

"I doubt that, but alright."

Johnny stood and dragged Edgar over to the couch without too much trouble, hefting him up carelessly as he flopped back into the cushions without resistance. Johnny stared down at him for a few moments then sighed, sitting down.

"When do you think he'll wake up? It's not going to be soon, I know that much."

"You're stressed." Mr. Eff's voice came back to him. "You should go down into the basement. There are still some people there that could use your attention. We'll tell you if he wakes up or not."

That was a pleasant thought. Smiling again, Johnny stood and walked out of the room. "I'll be back soon."

* * *

_Oh GOD that hurt. _

_Am I okay?_

_Of course I'm not okay, what kind of question is that? Some large blunt object just paid some unexpected visit to the back of my head. I'm not okay._

_Who...Johnny of course. I already knew that...Why?_

_That's a good question. Not so easy to answer._

_Well, he seemed to like me before. Why would he attack me now?_

_Maybe I did something wrong._

_Like what?_

_I don't know. He is crazy, you know. It was probably something I couldn't have prevented it anyway._

_Maybe he wanted my coat._

_My coat. Actually, now that you mention it..._

_No...he wouldn't kill me just for my coat._

_Yeah. Right._

_...I still don't think he would do that._

_I think you're giving him way too much credit._

_I think he deserves some._

_So tell me, how many people did he kill tonight?_

_...He was provoked._

_Well he was obviously provoked enough to acquaint my head and a bat, wasn't he?_

_I didn't do anything though._

_Where did those scars come from, hmm?_

_...I don't think he did it because I did something wrong._

_Well, he certainly did it. It's most likely that he just lost it and I was the closest person nearby. Maybe he wants to paint with me again._

_God, that sounds strange._

_Well, that's what he said before, right? Maybe that's what he wants._

_All this just for that?_

_He is insane._

_I know that. You repeat it all the time._

_You always seem to forget._

_God, it still hurts._

_I'd expect as much._

_...Wait...who are you?_

__

* * *

Edgar gradually managed to regain consciousness painfully and with a certain degree of randomness. He'd wake, fall asleep, wake, and then fall asleep. Considering the lack of dreams, this was incredibly disconcerting. Edgar usually liked to know what time it was. Irritating.

When Edgar finally decided to remain in the conscious world, he lay there without motion for a while, making sure that it wasn't going to blink out of existence again.

He struggled to move his arm, which thankfully responded. His legs did as well...that was encouraging. Maybe there would be no permanent damage.

His head seemed amazingly heavy when he tried to roll onto his side. Not to mention that the back of it felt somewhat peculiar. Not the feeling one would expect from an open wound, which is what he logically assumed he had.

_Where am I... _

_I know where I am._

_How long will I live?_

Edgar struggled again to roll over, managing to push himself with his arms into a sideways position, propping his head up on one arm of the chair. He struggled to keep the world from spinning and from lapsing back into unconsciousness again.

The back of his head ached horribly and he would've killed for some aspirin. He almost wished he'd go unconscious again just so the pain would stop.

He wasn't sure how much time passed as he lay on the couch, struggling to get his bearings and deal with the pain. It was hard to judge time. Not to mention his glasses were missing and everything had blurred entirely into obscurity. That was also extremely disorienting.

Eventually he could hear someone coming up the steps somewhere. As this noise came to his attention, he noticed that his ears were ringing just slightly. That was to be expected, he supposed.

_Maybe it's Johnny. Probably come to finish the job._

With a sigh, Edgar tried to relax. At least death would make his head stop aching. He let his muscles go lax as he stared off into the distance, unable to move his head any further.

"Oh..."

Of course it was Johnny. Slight disappointment in his voice. That was peculiar.

"You're awake."

Edgar struggled to respond, but he hadn't spoken in some time, or at least that's what it felt like, and he only managed to mumble incoherently. The vibrations from his voice caused the pain in his head to flare up.

"You might be wondering what hit you."

_No, not really. But indulge me._  
  
"That would be me." He could not see Johnny, but he could hear him making his way around the couch and sitting down somewhere near his legs. He could only tell from the shift in the cushion's position. Johnny wasn't touching him, but that was also to be expected to some extent. "You might be wondering why."

Edgar moaned softly as he tried to respond. _Aspirin...I would die for some aspirin._

_Ironic choice of words there._  
  
"I..." Pause. That was familiar. "I changed my mind."

_Changed your _mind!  
  
"I thought about doing something...but then I decided that I shouldn't. Not..." Johnny cut himself off smoothly. "So here you are..."

Edgar wanted to move onto his back, but could not muster the energy to do so. He made another pained noise in response instead, this one clearly not happy or accepting of the current situation.

"Yeah, I can kind of understand why you'd be upset. It was..." Pause. "Well, I took care of the..." Another pause. "So you should be alright shortly."

"Mmph."

Edgar closed his eyes before he could really realize what Johnny had said.

_Wait...he took care of it? Does he mean me? Did he take care of me? _

_God, that's frightening. I wasn't aware he could do that. At all. I didn't think he could care._

_He probably can't. But play along with him._

_I don't think he's lying._

"I don't envy the pain you're in currently..." Another longer pause. Johnny's next words seemed a bit more enthusiastic, as if he had just discovered or remembered something. "I think I might have something for that."

He saw something black move across his general field of vision which he assumed to be Johnny's legs. The blur vanished and he could hear Johnny head off somewhere.

Somewhere.

Edgar felt himself drifting off despite the current pain he was in, which he was thankful for. At least in sleep that ache would stop for a while.

* * *

He was not sure how much time passed before he found consciousness again. Disconcerting to say the least.

The pain wasn't lessening either, which was not really helping.

Any time from between five minutes to five days could have elapsed while Edgar slipped in and out of consciousness on the couch. He wondered if he was taking a long time to recover, but then again, Edgar did not have a wealth of experience or knowledge regarding how to recover from severe head trauma.

So he was not sure how long it was until Johnny came back. He wished he knew because that would at least give him a useful frame of reference. All he could do was struggle to try and think of how long it would have taken Johnny to get whatever it was he was getting.

The next thing he knew after he had drifted off was the feeling of the couch moving. Johnny was sitting near him again, although he still studiously avoided touching him. Edgar wasn't sure how long he had been there.

"Here."

He didn't seem very impatient. Maybe it hadn't been a long time after all. Edgar opened his eyes, not sure of what he was looking for amidst all the vague conjoined colors that made up his current field of vision. He tried to make a questioning noise.

"Take it. This should help."

_Take what?_

Edgar could not see anything without his glasses, but he squinted at the dark black splotch near him in an effort to make out anything recognizable. He had to crane his neck painfully to do so, but he was able to tell that Johnny was holding out something to him. Half of that was logical deduction though.

Edgar made another pained noise as he tried to move his arm. His body now seemed increasingly unresponsive. That was not a good sign.

He looked over at Johnny again, trying to make out what he was holding. He guessed it was an ice pack or something of that nature.

He tried again to lift his arm, but it refused to move.

"C'mon. Take it already."

_What's wrong with you? Can't you tell? I can't move!_  
  
Edgar struggled to force words out of his mouth. "Nng...can't..."

He could not see Johnny's reaction, but he could make out movement. He was not clear on what Johnny was doing exactly, but he did not seem willing to place the ice pack on Edgar's head by himself.

"What do you mean you can't?" He sounded genuinely confused.

_You knocked me unconscious, you...! Don't you know? _

_Of course he wouldn't know. He doesn't understand._

"Can't...!"

Edgar was intensely frustrated at how his body was refusing to respond to him. This was an entirely foreign experience to him and he hated that. He had no previous experience to base any kind of plan on. He did not know what to do. He _hated_ that.

Johnny was silent for a long time, although that did not really matter to Edgar. The throbbing pain in the back of his head had almost become a noise in itself. His ears were still ringing as well.

He had never felt this bad before.

He moaned again, somewhat pleased that at he could at least still do that.

"Why can't you take it..." Johnny seemed to be talking to himself. "I guess you..."

Edgar was not normally a violent person. But at that moment, he sincerely and deeply wanted to beat Johnny over the head with a bat. Just to make it _perfectly clear_ why he could not move his arms at this moment.

But Edgar could do nothing.

"Alright..." Johnny broke the silence again, although for all the world it seemed he was talking to someone else. "I guess..."

If Edgar had his glasses, this would at least be tolerable. He wondered vaguely where they were.

He could faintly hear and feel motion through the shifting of weight on the cushions, but he was not sure what to expect. Perhaps Johnny would leave and do something else. That'd be nice.

In the midst of his entirely internal annoyance, pain, and frustration, Edgar was completely unprepared for the cold shock against the wound on his head. He jerked sharply in response, his body finally galvanized back into action. He was not sure how Johnny reacted to his movement, considering he could not really see, but he doubted he was at all pleased.

Still, the sharp cold pressed against the back of his head, numbing the pain gradually as Edgar calmed his breathing. As the pain faded, he felt clarity come in its place. He felt much better already.

_Wait...was Johnny...?_

All he could see was a faint black blur near him, as far away as possible with the pack still in his grasp. So Johnny was, indeed, holding it against his head.

_Why. _

_Why!_

"There."

He wished he could see his expression. As it was, all he could see were vague colors. Dark blue, black, white, and a yellowish tinge...

He knew where Johnny was and had a vague idea of what he was doing. But he could not see how he felt.

Not that Johnny was exceptionally easy to read anyway.

He did feel better though.

"Thanks..." he mumbled as best he could. He was not sure if it came out intelligibly or not, as Johnny gave no response.

* * *

With the ice pack in place, Johnny apparently felt that his part was over and got up to do something else. That did not really surprise Edgar, considering he probably had something he could be doing right now. Something more important than just staring at him.

That was getting uncomfortable anyway. Even if he could not necessarily see Johnny's eyes on him, he could still feel them.

The ice did help and Edgar fell into a more pleasant rest, this time not plagued with pain.

Eventually he was able to lift himself upwards, allowing his vision to adjust as he raised a hand to the back of his head to explore. He felt the familiar sensation of bandages. _That_ he could recognize without the help of his eyes. He placed the long-melted bag off to one side.

Where did Johnny get that anyway?

Where did Johnny get bandages as well?

It didn't really seem like he would ever need them.

The ringing in his ears had finally subsided and Edgar felt almost normal, excepting the loss of his glasses. He initially was rather hesitant about searching on the floor, considering what he'd seen there before he had been knocked unconscious, but he would really prefer to be able to see.

So he got down on his hands and knees, feeling about where he estimated he must have fallen. Glittering things on the floor got hesitant taps at first, to insure they were not just broken glass shards, then he moved onwards. It did not take him long to find his glasses, folded and placed carefully to one side, some distance from a still-moist dark spot on the floor. Newly shed blood. Edgar had a sneaking suspicion that it might have been his.

It did give him some reference of time, however. It hadn't dried yet.

He sighed in relief as the world slid back into focus. With the return of his vision, he felt a resurgence of confidence and capability. He made his way back to the couch and sat down, ignoring the faint aching in the back of his head as he looked around for Johnny. He was not here...probably in one of the lower floors.

Doing something.

_I should go home now. Before he comes back. _

_Why? He'd just track me down anyway._

_Well, what am I going to say when he comes back?_

_I don't know._

_I'm not going to ask him why, am I?_

_I know why._

_Then what?_

_...Don't know._

Edgar sighed as he leaned his head back on the cushions, staring upwards at the ceiling in an effort to distract himself.

_I didn't used to talk to myself. _

_Everyone talks to themselves to varying degrees. That's nothing special._

Edgar sighed again and leaned forward, resting his head in his hands.

_God, what am I going to do? _

_Interesting you'd call on him now._

_Don't even start._

He could hear Johnny coming up the steps and found that he was peculiarly without reaction. It was not until he actually opened the door, a somewhat pleased expression on his face, that Edgar felt a tinge of fear.

_There's no real graceful way out of this, is there? _

_Don't ask me._

Maybe that was why he wasn't frightened. There was nothing he could do.

"Oh, you're awake." Johnny looked at him for a moment with a blank expression before he smiled again. "That's good. I was wondering how long it would take."

"How long has it been?"

_Just brilliant._  
  
"Not long." Johnny seemed slightly distracted, as if he was looking for something in the room and having a conversation with Edgar to pass the time until it came to his attention. Edgar could not help but look around the room himself, finding that Johnny's eyes were resting on one of the hideously painted Styrofoam things on a dresser. He couldn't suppress a shudder at their faces.

"Thanks to you, I guess."

_Could that have been any more awkward? No, really. I can't think of any other way- _

_Shut up._

Johnny inclined his head at him again before snapping his fingers. "That's right, the bandages. Those weren't mine."

"I didn't think they were." Edgar leaned back against the couch with a deep sigh.

"They were Squeegee's." Johnny looked off to one side, perhaps towards the mentioned person's house, before returning his attention to Edgar. He lifted one hand for some unknown purpose before it fell back. "I..."

"Why did you knock me out?"

_I thought you said you knew. _

_I could guess. I don't know._

That was apparently an uncomfortable topic and Johnny's reaction reflected that as best it could. He looked downwards, raising his previously useless hand to run it through his messy hair. "That..."

_Wait for it._  
  
"I changed my mind."

_Saw that coming._  
  
"Why'd you do it in the first place? I didn't do anything to you."

_That didn't work before, Edgar, and it won't work now._  
  
"I know, but..." Johnny's tone changed. Slightly irritated, but still apologetic. Again the words drifted off into silence.

Edgar just sighed. "I probably wouldn't understand."

Johnny was silent for such a period of time that Edgar turned towards him to make sure he was still present. He was, only staring at Edgar intensely, as if waiting for him to do or say something.

Edgar felt awkward now that he knew of the attention focused on him, and he raised a hand to gesture to words that did not come. His hand eventually fell back down, just as Johnny's had before.

For once, Johnny broke the silence.

"I don't feel comfortable discussing it."

Strangely, Johnny sounded genuinely apologetic there. Edgar did not expect that at all.

"Now what?"

_What kind of question is that?_  
  
"Now...?" It was now Johnny's turn to stare at him blankly. "Oh...it's...late."

"Right." Edgar did not even bother to ask for the time. "If I _am_ going to go home, could I at least ask for your phone number or something?"

_Why. Why on earth do you want it? What use could you have for it? You're-_  
  
"Oh..."

"It's not in the phonebooks..."

"Oh..." Almost an echo of his previous short response. Picking up a pencil, he scribbled something quickly on a piece of paper, handing it to Edgar with the same befuddled look he had before. He had obviously not expected that at all.

In a strange way, neither had Edgar.

_Now I've got some way to track him down. _

_His number probably doesn't exist, you idiot._

Edgar sighed - that was a valid point- and looked back up at Johnny. He was still standing there, staring at him, a few loose, bloodstained strands of his hair hovering around his dark-rimmed eyes.

"Are you going to kill me?"

Johnny stared at him, and, as if it was almost painful to say, managed to respond.

"No."

"Why not?"

_Never can take things at face-value, can you?_  
  
At this, Johnny narrowed his eyes. "Does it really matter?"

Edgar took the hint. "Alright. That's okay."

_Should I get up?_  
  
Edgar used the armrest as his main support as he pushed himself back onto his feet, watching Johnny back away from him as he did so, arms again behind his back. Edgar felt a rush of dizziness that quickly passed and he turned back towards the thin man, who stared at him so distantly and clinically.

At least it was better than murderously.

"I'm going home, alright? I...need to rest."

_That felt awkward._  
  
Johnny just nodded in response and Edgar struggled to make his legs work properly as he made his way to the door. Before long he was out on the lawn, again making his way back to his house through unfamiliar territory.

Johnny watched him go.

"You're not very good at this, Nny." A voice came to him, and he twitched in response, narrowing his eyes.

"I _will_ get good at this."

Johnny smiled.

"And then I'll kill him."


	5. Squee

A week passed by.

Edgar had not heard from Johnny and frankly he was glad. He could not understand his motivations, the reasoning behind his erratic behavior. He could not _understand_ Johnny. It bothered him.

Also, despite anything Johnny had said before to try and comfort him, he did _not_ trust him. Edgar did _not_ want to put himself in danger.

Of course, as soon as Edgar had left he had gone to a hospital to have his injury checked. It seemed the most rational thing to do at that point, although his entire life seemed to recently be governed by pure _ir_rationality. So much depended on these tiny moments of control, the pockets of his life he still felt he owned.

It turned out that the wound was not serious and he would not take too long to recover. That was fortunate. With more fitting bandages applied by professionals, Edgar resumed his daily routine, trying to forget what had happened.

Trying.

He was almost living in fear of his phone.

A week.

"Hello?"

"I want your coat."

Dark and sharp. It had been a while since he had heard that voice and despite himself, he shivered. It was so easy to imagine different words, to hear a death sentence rather than a greeting. Edgar only faltered for a moment before regaining his composure.

"...my coat?"

"You said you knew where to find one."

That had been the last thing on Edgar's mind when he headed home, but he rummaged about his belongings as best he could while trying to keep his voice steady. Where did he put it...?

"...I did..."

Johnny waited on the other end until Edgar found something that could be traced back to the coat. He winced to himself as he spoke.

"I think I know where you can get one, but I doubt you'd like the atmosphere..."

"Where?"

* * *

While they were walking in the mall, Johnny tended to speak to himself softly about things that Edgar did not completly understand. That wasn't entirely unexpected. However, it was made fairly clear that the coat was not the only reason that Johnny had agreed to come to a place he obviously detested. Johnny mentioned "expressing" his distaste in ways he did not clarify.

Edgar could easily guess that someone was going to die. Perhaps multiple someones. The dangerous look was back in Johnny's voice and he had begun to ignore Edgar, preferring to mumble to himself rather than hold any kind of conversation with him.

Again, it seemed that the people present were intentionally antagonizing the darker man beside him. While Edgar walked along without a second glance, people tended to stare, whisper, point, and at times make comments that were obviously intended to be audible at Johnny. Considering his general lack of control, Edgar was surprised that they had made it this far without someone meeting a rather untimely end.

Edgar could not remember the exact store where he had purchased his coat. He, however, did _not_ want to spend more time here than he had to with his present company. He desperately struggled to remember the name and location of the store while the time bomb beside him slowly ticked down to an inevitable explosion.

They had not been walking long when something caught Johnny's attention.

Or rather, someone.

Edgar halted as soon as he noticed Johnny had stopped. He was staring intensely, although without any of the previous hatred, at a small boy flickering in between the people of the crowd. Edgar looked back and forth between them to make sure he had made the correct mental link. Yes, Johnny was definitely staring at the large-eyed boy.

_Why?_

The boy, who looked almost painfully vulnerable, was struggling to make his way around and between the legs of people who were entirely ignoring him. Occasionally he would look upwards for a familiar face and be disappointed, his tiny arms clutching a strangely scarred stuffed bear tightly as panic welled within his large eyes. Finally, apparently giving up hope of finding who he was looking for, the boy stopped in the midst of the people. He held tight onto his stuffed bear as he looked back and forth desperately.

"MOMMY!"

Edgar looked back at Johnny, who was staring at the boy almost as if trying to remember something.

"Do you..." Edgar started a question, but let it drift off when he noticed Johnny was ignoring him. Shrugging, he decided he may as well go along with whatever Johnny was planning. Something in him did not think the boy was in danger. At least not from Johnny. He was staring at the child, but the expression on his face did not indicate any kind of anger or homicidal intent. Johnny had to know the boy from somewhere, although Edgar could not even guess the location or context.

It did not seem that Johnny would have had much experience with children, considering how he spent most of his time.

Johnny began to walk towards the boy and Edgar followed silently, his mind buzzing with questions and unsatisfactory answers.

However, it seemed that someone else had heard the child's scream for help.

The large man walked up to the boy and exchanged words with him as the distance closed. The boy seemed reluctant and frightened and the man overly congenial and eager to please, taking his hand although it had not been offered. He definitely intended to go somewhere with the boy, who did not look exactly pleased with the idea.

Edgar felt a sick twinge within him, the knowledge of predators in such public places now the only thing that came to mind. Every news report, every traumatized family, every tear-stricken mother holding an old photograph, every victim that underwent some metamorphosis into something terrible, to give a reason or some kind of flimsy motivation behind their future actions...everything he had heard about such things came to mind. That was the only explanation he could think of for the man's sudden vested interest in the child.

_Where are this kid's parents?_

Edgar glanced at Johnny. The dark man now had the vengeful look in his eyes, his expression becoming frighteningly malevolent and serious. He stared at the man who was dragging the boy away.

Someone was certainly going to die.

And Edgar was almost glad.

_What's happening to you? _

_Anyone would react this way._

_...You're...actively wishing...Johnny on someone._

Edgar could think of no excuse.

Johnny's pace quickened, steps lengthening, and Edgar followed along behind him, unable to tear himself away. His mind desperately tried to think of some kind of justification for following Johnny, for wanting to see what would happen, and the only thing that seemed believable was a morbid sense of curiosity.

Suddenly Johnny stopped, poised in the middle of step and thought, darting off to one side without warning or excuse. Edgar watched him leave with a rising sense of panic and confusion.

The man was taking the boy through one of the emergency exits.

_What do I do now? _

_You can't let that man victimize that boy. You have to do something._

_You're kidding, right? I can't do anything. Nny..._

_Yes, Nny. What are you going to do? Are you going to follow him and see where he's going? Or are you going to do something useful?_

_Like what? What do you mean?_

_You could tell Nny where he went._

_But-_

_He's coming back already._

Johnny walked back towards him with a quick, purposeful gait, a new weapon clutched tightly in one of his hands. A bat. Where had he got that? Not that it mattered, but...

Another tinge of morbid curiosity.

_Why do I want to see this? _

_You want to see this man's behavior be punished. You want the child to be spared. You want real justice._

_...That's sick._

_It's also true._

"Are-"

"Where-"

"There." Edgar responded quickly out of fear, partly for himself and partly for the boy. Johnny followed his finger to the exit and in moments was gone.

With one final glance around him, Edgar stepped through the door as well.

The man was holding the boy up, shaking and yelling something that did not have a chance to form into words. Edgar arrived in time to see the bat connect with the man's head viciously, knocking him several feet away with a sickeningly predictable sound.

Johnny had a peculiarly pleased look on his face as he stared down at the boy, who looked absolutely traumatized.

"Todd? I like 'Squee' better."

The man was twitching in the midst of some boxes, bleeding from the side of his head that had been distorted from the force of the blow. Edgar stepped forward with a mixture of fear, nervousness, and some sense of satisfaction. He stared at the bleeding man with almost visible distaste.

_Your actions do have consequences now, don't they? You... _

_I'm not thinking this, am I? It's wrong._

_No, what he was intending to do was wrong. This is right._

_This can't be right. This isn't right. I shouldn't be..._

_You're joking. Think about what was going to happen. Nny did a good thing._

_But...in this..._

_What other way is there? There's justice here and you won't even realize it! Unless justice isn't why you're here._

_That has to be why I'm here._

_Because any other reason is..._

_It's wrong._

_You have to be the good one, don't you? You can't have blood on your own hands, can you? Edgar the pious, Edgar the pure. But you're still here and you're staring at that man's body and you're glad. You're glad he's in pain. I can almost see you smiling. What does this mean to you? How much of that so-called goodness is a lie now?_

_Shut up...this isn't right but...there was nothing I could have done..._

_So powerlessness is your excuse? That's becoming your excuse for this entire relationship._

_It's not like I had a choice._

_Again._

_Well...I guess..._

_I guess...this is thwarting a greater evil. So...I guess in some sense it can be justified._

_You get closer everyday._

_What are you talking about? Closer to what?_

_You're glad he's dead. Right?_

_...He's not dead yet._

The door closed behind him with a clang, although this was not noticed, and he made his way closer to them. While Johnny did glance at him, he did not introduce or mention him in any way.

As Johnny went into one of his almost predictable speeches, he illustrated his points by dismantling his subject as he spoke, completely ignoring the child's frightened screams. A hand cut cleanly as if there were no bone at all, the head pulled apart with almost no effort, the brain removed bodily and thrown...all to illustrate Johnny's point. The point itself almost made sense, regardless of the unnecessary visuals.

_That's not a good sign, Edgar._  
  
What confused him most was afterwards when Johnny spoke calmly to the boy who was paralyzed with horror.

"Of course, these are _my_ opinions - likely to be as flawed as anyone else's. Um, really, I guess you should assume everyone's speaking out of some external influence. Believe in whatever makes sense to you."

What was really frightening about Johnny were his eerie moments of perfect clarity. Despite the blood spattered all over his clothes and face, despite the man he had just brutally murdered and disfigured, Edgar could understand him. Edgar could understand and think about what he said on an entirely philosophical level.

It was the thought that Johnny could potentially _not_ be insane that frightened him.

Johnny looked up, staring with the same kind of wide-eyed puzzlement that often accompanied his changes of thought. "Whoa...I guess all this excess was kind of pointless, then, wasn't it? Um, well, you better get going. It's Tuesday and you know what that means - _U.F.O._'s!"

And then he said things like _that_.

And Edgar wished he could be surprised.

Johnny took off running, calling out behind him for the boy to follow his lead. The child stood there blankly, blood from his potential captor spattered all over his face.

An awkward pause.

_Say something, Edgar._  
  
He kneeled down beside the boy, Todd as Johnny had identified him.

"Are you okay?"

An obvious question.

"_NO_!"

With an equally obvious answer.

Edgar rubbed the back of his head awkwardly. He had never really been good with children. "...I guess that's understandable."

Todd was breathing hard, holding tightly onto his bear as he tried to get himself under control. It seemed that at any moment he would bolt off screaming just as Johnny had.

"C'mon..." Edgar looked at the still bleeding remains of the man. "I don't think this is a good place to be at the moment."

"I want my mommy." Squeaky, thin voice. What was the other name...? Squee? Edgar could see where that name found its origin.

Edgar raised an eyebrow as he stood, unable to stop the slight cynicism from sneaking into his voice. "Well, we're not going to find her here."

"I'm not supposed to talk to strangers." Todd was edging away from him, which seemed entirely understandable considering what had just happened. Edgar put his hands into his pockets, not sure how he could appear less threatening.

"I...guess you could say I'm a friend of Johnny's. I'm still a stranger, but..." _God, I'm phrasing this all wrong._ "Believe me, I just want to get you back to your parents and then go home. This day has been entirely too...surreal."

"You know him?" Todd blinked at him in surprise for a moment before the same frightened look crossed his face. He backed away further. "You're not crazy, are you?"

"No, I don't think so." Edgar smiled softly at the thought, staring at where Johnny had disappeared. "Thank god."

Todd stared at him suspiciously, still untrusting and frightened. Edgar sighed to himself.

"I'm not asking you to trust me, really. I just don't want you out here by yourself. It's not..." Edgar glanced at the dead body. "Not safe, exactly."

Todd stood there, apparently trying to make a decision. He stared down at his stuffed bear quietly, deep in thought. Edgar decided to wait, although the dead body nearby was making him decidedly uncomfortable.

"...Shmee..." Todd mumbled, but finally looked up. "Shmee says you're okay, so I guess I'll come with you."

"Okay." Edgar could guess that Shmee was the bear. He did not have to ask. "Well, let's try and find your parents."

The fire exit was locked from their vantage point, so they decided to go around. Squee did not take Edgar's hand, but instead held onto the edge of his coat's sleeve.

His coat...?

When did he put that on?

Edgar shook his head at his own bad memory as he entered the mall. He had been forgetting so much lately.

Not like him.

"How do you know Johnny?" Edgar felt uncomfortable in the following silence. He did not know Todd, so he did not expect long periods of...quiet. With Johnny, he knew they would come. But with children...it just seemed strange. "He doesn't seem like the kind of guy you'd normally run into."

"He's my neighbor."

That explained so much.

"He's a bad man. Shmee says I should stay away from him. He kills people. He always comes over anyway, though. Even if I don't want him to. He's scary."

"I know the feeling." Edgar smiled slightly at the irony. Both of them had almost been trapped into maintaining a relationship with Johnny. "I think he's scary too. But like you said, I can't really stop him, exactly."

Todd looked up at him, apparently not expecting someone to understand what he was talking about. "How did he find you?"

Edgar paused. "I'm not really sure. He just...found me I guess. He was going to kill me, actually...he changed his mind later."

That seemed to happen a lot. Johnny was awfully capricious. His hand drifted up to touch the bandages hidden beneath his hair.

"Aren't you scared of him?"

"I'm scared to death of him. But I can't do anything about it. I guess we're both kind of in the same boat, really."

Edgar had no idea who he was looking for. He was entirely depending on Todd's ability to recognize his parents if they came into view. The others in the mall simply ignored them as they passed by. No whispers, stares, or comments. Not even regarding the scars beneath his eyes. Not even regarding the blood spattered on the boy at his side.

If Johnny had some innate ability to make people hate him and deliberately bother him, then it almost seemed that Edgar had an opposing ability: to become almost invisible. To pass unnoticed throughout people and society, to leave no trail. While Johnny became visible to almost every negative element on the societal spectrum, it seemed that Edgar did not even register on the spectrum at all. An invisible man. So faint and indistinct that it even made the boy beside him pass unnoticed as well.

Did this cancel out Johnny's visibility? Obviously not. Did it dampen it? It did not seem to be that way. Two different forces seemed to be governing how society viewed both Johnny and Edgar and it appeared the psychotic man's backing had a great deal more power than the other.

After all, it's easy to be noticed. To paint "LOOK AT ME!" in giant letters across someone's forehead. It's not so easy to fade back into obscurity. To take whatever actions and mistakes made and erase them from the memory of the general populace.

In the simplest terms, Johnny apparently had a sign that read "DRIVE ME CRAZY" somewhere on his person that the most irritating, petty, and cruel of the societal rungs could see. And Edgar's equivalent sign, most likely written in small white letters on a white background, simply read "don't notice me."

An interesting contrast.

And here he was, talking about it to some degree with a small child.

"Shmee says you seem like a good guy...we both kind of know him by accident..." Todd trailed off. "I...didn't think he hadn'tkilled anyone else. He...kills a lot of people. He tried to kill Shmee once too."

That would explain the stitches.

"Johnny's not exactly sane...but..." Edgar felt twinges of guilt at talking about Johnny like this, behind his back. It was one thing to think about it, but to actually discuss it with another human being, even a little boy, made him feel...kind of bad.

_Oh no. Oh GOD no. You do NOT feel bad about this. You know he's psychotic and you know he's evil. You shouldn't feel anything about this. _

_I know but-_

_Even your friendship is forced with him. If you had your way he'd never call you again. You should not feel bad about talking about him. You should NOT feel bad about this._

_I know but-_

_Because you know what that means, right? You know what that means._

_It means...it means to some degree I think I'm his friend._

_That is exactly right, Edgar. And, for the love of god, you can't do that._

"Are you okay?" Todd's voice broke his inner monologue. "Um...what's your name?"

"Oh...sorry. My name's Edgar. Edgar Vargas actually..." Edgar again felt his hand rising to his face, but he forced it downwards angrily. "I'm alright. I was just thinking..."

"Are you sure...?" The boy looked unnaturally concerned for him. Edgar could not understand why. He had known him for all of twenty minutes. "You...looked very far away."

_He's more intelligent than I gave him credit for._  
  
"Yes..." Edgar sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He was not used to talking to other people...but Todd was only a kid. There was nothing he could do to hurt him or anything. He just had to remember he wasn't the only one in the conversation. Why _not_ tell him something? Maybe that'll get the kid to trust him more. "It's...hard to describe really. Lately I've been talking to myself a lot. I never did that before...it's kind of frightening."

"Are you sure it's to yourself?" Todd gave him a worried look. Edgar doubted it was for him, assuming rather that the boy was concerned for his own safety. "'Cause I think the neighborman talks...well, not exactly to himself..." Todd trailed off again. "And he's bad."

"Don't worry, I don't want to hurt you." Edgar felt his muscles twitch slightly at Todd's suggestion and he was glad that the boy held his sleeve, not his hand. The thought was ludicrous but still...it was somewhat unsettling. "I'm not crazy. And I'm definitely talking to myself, not to any little ghosts or something. It's just..."

Edgar looked around again as if he could find what he was looking for. "My life used to be so normal. And now it's..._beyond_ bizarre."

Todd was quiet for a while. "Things like this happen to me all the time."

"What do your parents look like?"

"Oh..." Todd almost seemed to have forgotten. "Oh...um..."

He moved off in one direction, taking Edgar with him.

"I think they might be over here."

And as a matter of fact, there they were.

"Excuse me...is this your boy...?"

"Oh." The man stared at Edgar intensely through slightly ovaloid glasses. He looked infinitely frustrated and annoyed at him, so much so that Edgar was taken slightly aback. "You found him."

As if it was a bad thing.

"Just when I thought he wouldn't come back. Are you sure you don't want to keep him? He doesn't eat much."

Edgar stared at him blankly, not knowing how to react. That was the last thing he expected. Hoping to find some cue from Todd, he looked down at him. Maybe this was some kind of game his family played, maybe his father was joking, maybe they expressed affection through sarcasm or some excuse other than...

Todd was just staring up at his father without any kind of surprise or measure of sadness. It was just a blank, emotionless look.

"Who's that strange boy, dear?" Todd's mother was wobbling slightly back and forth as she stared off at something other than her child. She had a glazed, artificially pleased look on her face.

His father narrowed his eyes angrily. "He's your son! Jesus..."

"Never mind." Finally Edgar found words and he turned away, noticing that Todd continued to hang onto him. "I'll take him home."

Edgar had no idea why he said that. He had no such obligation to the kid. He just met him less than an hour ago. But still...the only reason he could find for wanting to leave the pair of adults presence so quickly was that...

He did not want Todd to be there.

From the expression on his face, Todd had to hear things like this on a regular basis. It had probably lost all of its meaning now. But to Edgar it almost hurt. He didn't know on what level or why it seemed to cause him such faint, distant pain, but he wanted it to stop.

So he had volunteered to drive a child he just met back to his house.

_I feel like more of my actions are getting out of my control..._  
  
"Are you okay?" Edgar felt awkward in the silence that followed them turning away. "I'll take you home, alright?"

"I'm okay. This's better than usual, actually. This time I won't have to jump..." Todd shook his head. "Well, that's only happened a few times."

He wasn't sure if he wanted to know.

"Sorry about..." Edgar wanted to mention his parent's behavior, but he felt expressing it in that fashion would make anything he said meaningless and trite. After all, he had only experienced them for a few minutes. Todd had to live with them his entire life. What possible effect could Edgar saying something as simple as "sorry" have?

He had to find something that he felt more knowledgeable about, something he would feel a bit more at ease expressing some kind of regret over... "All this. I mean...with the dead guy and all."

_That would work._

"It's not your fault. Things like this just...happen around me." Such quiet acceptance. Todd was being exceptionally mature about this, considering how much blood was currently on him.

Edgar doubted his parents even noticed.

"I think..." Todd paused as they pushed open the doors leading outside. "I think...you don't really belong here."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know. It's hard to say...Shmee says...things like this shouldn't be happening to you. Like...you shouldn't be here."

"Sometimes I feel like that myself." Edgar was surprised at the level their conversation was at. He definitely had not been giving children enough credit. Or at least _this_ one. "I feel like I've been dragged into this entire thing out of my control. Actually..._everything_ I've done with Johnny has been out of my control...I'm...kind of...I don't know."

_Why are you telling him this? It's not like he could help you._  
  
Edgar opened the door for Todd, watching him crawl in and buckle his seat belt immediately upon settling down. Edgar shut the door with a quiet sense of calm, recognizing the apathy that typified intense emotional situations.

_He's just a kid. He can't hurt me either._  
  
"I must sound pretty strange...I'm not used to talking to other people. I don't really have any friends." Edgar started his car, glancing over at Todd as he did so. The boy was sitting with the bear in his lap, just watching the road ahead without much emotion.

"Shmee's my friend." Todd looked down at his bear. "You seem nice though. Maybe you could be a friend of mine too." He looked out towards the streets again, a strangely hollow look in his eyes. "I don't have many of those either."

"Alright then." Edgar felt incredibly peculiar. Was this how friendships were normally formed? He felt somehow that he was handling this incorrectly, saying things that were not normal or appropriate for the situation.

_Mark it all down for future reference and continue on._

The rest of the drive was silent, which did not bother Edgar much this time around. With the acknowledgment of their friendship, Edgar did not feel the pressure that was present before to continue the conversation. He felt more at ease around the boy, although he was not sure if that was reciprocated. Despite the calm nature of the drive and the scenery they passed, Todd still managed to look slightly frightened.

If as many bizarre things happened to him as he said, he didn't blame him for looking nervous.

Although Edgar could not find Johnny's house when he looked for it, somehow he was able to find it now. Maybe it was Todd's presence in his car. Maybe he had just forgotten the streets before or perhaps the police had been lying to him. But somehow he managed to find the house beside the boarded shack.

"There's his house." Todd sounded frightened, a high-pitched squeak working its way into his voice. "I hope he isn't home."

"Me too." Edgar voiced this out loud without thinking. However, when he looked at Todd and noticed his almost pleased expression, he was glad he had agreed.

"Do you want to see my room?" Todd stared at him intensely with those large eyes. "Shmee says there's something in there I should show you."

"Alright."

As Edgar exited the car, shutting the door on the way, he glanced over at the shack with a tinge of nervousness. The lights in the boarded up shack were off. That was no clear indication that Johnny was or was not present, but Edgar was willing to hope that he wasn't. He followed Todd into his house.

The boy's room seemed typical for a little child. Brightly colored wallpaper. Stuffed toys and such on the floor. Pictures in crayon occasionally on the walls or across the floor. It all looked fairly normal.

However...

Edgar stepped into the room with a slight twinge of some undefinable feeling, causing his skin to prickle. It wasn't fear or nervousness or even any kind of physical sickness. It was...something that he was not familiar with.

He looked out the window over at Johnny's house, mentally guessing that perhaps that was the source of the bizarre sensation, and found it was still dark and silent. That could not have been the source...but he still felt so vaguely uncomfortable...so..._something_.

"Are you okay? You're staring off into space again."

"Oh...sorry."

Was that what he did when he thought deeply?

"You're..." Todd stared at him with a confused expression. "Shmee..." He shook his head. "Never mind."

"Alright." That he was familiar with. Johnny tended to do the same thing.

Edgar wandered around the room, not feeling comfortable simply standing idly. He stopped at a shelf that had a collection of action figures on it. It was a fairly small collection but varied greatly. He could recognize a few from comic books he had glanced over at magazine racks. Some of them were from movies, although the only reason he knew that was because of the occasional preview or commercial on television. Edgar didn't really get out much.

He noticed three figures standing in a triangle formation, each posed to help set off the other. The foremost figure at the apex wore a long black trench coat over a striped shirt that bore a blank square on the chest. Following with the black motif came matching pants and boots. The toy's hands were occupied holding out a gun, his body frozen in the position of darting out of the way. He had dark, messy hair and wore a pair of glasses.

The one to his right was female and was bereft of the first's trench coat. She wore a black halter-top and a matching pair of black pants. Her purplish hair was tied back into two pigtails, and she stood to one side looking prepared, although she had no weapon.

The last one to complete the triangle also wore a trench coat, matching him with the first. Again, the same kind of pants and boots appeared on this figure as well, but he wore a solid black shirt. He had a shotgun poised in front of him and had no hair at all. His eyes were hidden behind sunglasses.

Edgar narrowed his eyes as he tried to remember where he had seen them before. They looked familiar to him...

"Did you ever see that movie?" Todd had gotten up and was now standing near him, apparently enjoying the opportunity to explain his collection to someone who would show interest. "It was kind of silly, but it was fun to watch anyway."

"What was it called?"

"Zeitgeist I think." Edgar was surprised that Todd could pronounce the word, then reminded himself that Todd probably also knew what it meant. He had to stop underestimating him. "It had to do a lot with reality and computers. All the characters in it were named after famous composers."

Edgar looked down at him with a measure of surprise, noticing that Todd had gained a slight tinge of pride in his voice. This was probably his first opportunity to flaunt his knowledge on this topic.

"I looked them up afterwards. I wanted to know." Todd reached out, picking up the figure at the front. He pointed at the woman with his free hand. "That's Liszt." Then he turned and pointed to the one with the shotgun. "And that's Satie."

"What's this one?" Edgar held out his hand as he spoke and Todd placed the figure into it. Edgar knelt to the floor, again feeling that uneasy twinge. Where was that coming from?

Another glance at the window. The lights were still off.

He still felt as if he was in danger somehow...

The little plastic figurine was fully articulated and Edgar toyed with his arms a little, moving them into various positions. However, the position that Todd had kept him in seemed to suit him best.

"That's Scriabin. He's the main character." Todd sat down along with him, Shmee leaning against his side. "He wasn't supposed to get into the whole thing, but in the end he does. He ends up being really important to everyone. I don't want to ruin it for you though, if you haven't seen it."

Edgar stared at the action figure intently, something niggling at the back of his mind. This figure seemed so familiar to him and he could not place why. He had not seen the movie, thinking it to be far too pretentious when he saw the commercials for it, but he felt that couldn't be the source of such familiarity. Something...strange.

Todd looked over at his bear for a moment, then looked at Edgar curiously. "Wow...um. Shmee says...he's right too. You kind of look like him."

It was almost as if a light bulb went off over Edgar's brain. So that's why he seemed so familiar! With it came a few fragmented memories of when he had first seen the previews. He had written off the main character's physical similarity to him as inconsequential and somewhat irritating, although he had never gotten stopped for it or asked questions. It had never occurred to him that in the course of things action figures would be made and therefore...

Edgar was holding a slightly distorted version of himself in his hands.

"You're right...I remember thinking that when I first saw the movie come out."

Todd stood, moving to look out the window nervously. Edgar wasn't sure why this was. Todd was probably scared now that they were going to get caught. That would definitely not be good for either of them. "I think you better go though, mommy and daddy usually come home around this time..."

"Alright, that's a good idea." Edgar stood, following Todd's example and brushing himself off. He reached over to replace the figure with his partners.

"Oh wait." Todd darted over to him, stopping his hand. "No. Shmee thinks you should keep it. He says its important."

_Whatever._

"Okay, if he thinks so." Edgar shrugged and pushed the action figure into one of his pockets. "Thanks."

"It's okay." Todd smiled at him genuinely. "I hope nothing bad happens to you. Like you get hit by a plane or something." The pleased expression changed quickly to one of worry. "That happens to everyone I meet in one way or another."

"I don't think a plane is really my biggest worry." Edgar glanced again in the direction of Johnny's house. The lights still remained off. Edgar felt himself wondering vaguely where he could have gone before he stopped himself. "You take care of yourself, okay?"

"Okay."

Edgar left, again feeling a sharp twinge of unease as he stepped out of the house. Nothing from either building. Why did he feel this way? What was he worried about?

_I didn't know you were this paranoid. _

_I'm not normally. That's what's peculiar._

_Well, at least you made a friend here. That's good._

_That's true. It seems like that kid needs friends anyway._

_You know, not because, say, you need friends._

Edgar paused at that thought, his keys only inches away from entering the ignition. He waited for his mind to come up with some kind of rejoinder, but nothing seemed to come. Shrugging and shaking his head, he began his drive home.

_I don't know._


	6. Movie

Another week passed by.

Scriabin had found a place on the dresser beside Edgar's bed. He seemed somewhat lonely -- an alarm clock and a phone the only things to keep him company -- but for some reason Edgar felt he belonged there. Nowhere else in the room did the little toy seem to fit.

He found that Scriabin looked most natural in the pose that Todd had placed him in. One leg slightly bent, the other extended, his balance maintained by one outstretched arm. The other was occupied pointing the irremovable gun directly at its target in front of him.

Edgar guessed that perhaps this was the pose intended for the toy and decided to let it stay that way.

So Scriabin pointed his gun across the room, over his bed, and at a wall for the next few days. Edgar paid little to no attention to him, easily adjusting to the new feature on his dresser without much trouble.

By the end of the week, it seemed that Scriabin had always been there.

And somehow, Edgar felt less fear than he had before. After he had received his lovely near-concussion, he had feared his phone. Shivered and jumped when he heard it ring. But now he felt an eerie sense of calm. It was the same calm he recognized from before, familiar and efficient. When his phone rang, he picked it up with hands steady and unwavering.

"Hello, Edgar."

"Are you okay?" The question had been foremost in Edgar's mind ever since Johnny had disappeared. "I'm sorry I left you behind like that...the kid needed a ride home so..."

There was a very long pause.

Edgar sat down on his bed, idly picking up Scriabin as he waited for Johnny to find the correct words. He played with the toy's small arms while he waited. At least now he had something to amuse him whenever nothing was said.

"I'm okay."

Johnny did not sound okay. He sounded bewildered. Edgar only had to think for a moment as to why.

_You're probably the first person to ask him that question in a long time. You were worried. Dare I ask why?_

_I can't really say._

_You're terrified of him, aren't you?_

_Of course._

_Then why do you care if he's okay?_

_I don't._

_But you asked. Let's not forget that. What did that mean?_

_Can't I ask a simple question anymore?_

_It's never really simple, Edgar. You know that now. Things were simple, now they're not. Better get used to it, I think he's going to talk again._

"...Is Squee okay?"

_What do you know._

"Yeah, he's fine." Another pause. Edgar struggled to keep the conversation going. "He's a good kid, really. Too bad about his parents though..."

"I wanted to ask you something."

Only a slight pause before Edgar reacted appropriately. "What?"

"I'm...I want to go out again. I need to...I need..."

_Oh god._

"There's a movie playing...I was wondering if you might want to come and see it with me. I don't want to go alone."

_Thank god._

Edgar glanced at his alarm clock. It did not seem to be too late. He could catch a quick movie and be able to get up for work the next day.

Still calm. Still rational.

Where had this confidence come from?

_Remember what happened last time?_

_Yes. Last time nothing happened to me._

_Alright, the time before that._

_Well, what do you want me to do? Do you want me to make him swear not to kill me? 'Oh, before we go could you promise not to beat me senseless'? Can you honestly give me ANY suggestion as to WHAT to do instead of constantly criticizing me without any kind of contribution?_

Edgar waited.

And for some reason, he could not think of a response to his own tirade.

"Well?" Johnny's voice was dark. Apparently this was not really a decision on Edgar's part.

"Alright."

"I'll meet you soon."

He hung up.

Edgar followed suit, watching his hands quietly as they fell back into his lap. He looked at the action figure that dropped on the bed at some point during the conversation. He picked it up, set it back on his dresser, then got dressed.

Hopefully, tonight would have some semblance of normalcy.

He doubted it though.

* * *

It would have been a nice movie.

Just when Edgar felt he had enough information to salvage himself out of any kind of situation with Johnny, he threw another wrench into the proverbial gears.

Whenever an emotionally moving scene would come on Edgar would glance away, almost as if to remind himself that the movie was not real and therefore should not affect him. However, once in the circuit around the theater his eyes crossed Johnny. He could not help staring for just a few moments.

Johnny of course didn't notice. He was totally enraptured in the film, his knees drawn up to his chest and held in place by his skeletal arms. He was resting his chin against the top of his knees as he stared directly at the screen, eyes unblinking.

Edgar had seen Johnny angry. Seen Johnny repentant, depressed, confused, and giddy.

But he had never seen this before.

Johnny almost seemed awed, almost seemed to be taken away by the cinematic experience. For a few moments, he lost the insane sadness that constantly lingered about him. For a few moments, the manic destructiveness that allowed him to take human life was gone. He was just staring and watching the movie screen intently.

For all intents and purposes, Johnny was _perfectly normal_.

That was _terrifying_.

Edgar looked back at the screen again in case Johnny would have noticed him staring at him, but he need not to have worried. Johnny was far too enthralled in the movie itself, paying no attention to the man sitting beside him.

_I thought he couldn't care..._

_...I thought he was...I don't know. Unable to do anything...in...I don't know. I never thought..._

Edgar felt as if something in him was missing, as if the sight of Johnny had reminded him of something that had lost. What was wrong...? He could not think of the answer.

_He's sitting here next to me and he's not killing or being crazy or anything. He's being perfectly normal. This movie is reaching him, it's affecting him. It's making him feel something normal humans can't make him feel._

_I didn't think he could do that._

_I can almost..._

Edgar couldn't help but focus on him again. Johnny was still frozen in the same pose, curled into himself, but there was almost...

He could almost see something against the dark skin. Almost...

_He can cry...?_

_He can cry...?_

_Oh my god...oh my god...this..._

_What should I do? What should I do..._

_I should..._

_...Not ruin this for him._

So he looked back at the screen, his mind reeling with questions. He did not say anything.

Edgar was able to rationalize being with Johnny. He was able to justify it as being something out of his control, their pseudo-friendship maintained by threats and fear. He was able to rationalize Johnny's deviant and frightening behavior as the result of an entirely destroyed mind.

But these moments...like before with Todd and now, when he looked so...

So _human_...

_That's how he was going to kill me._

Edgar was staring at the screen with the same amount of intensity that Johnny was, although it was for an entirely different reason. The impact of his sudden realization left him paralyzed, his eyes staring blankly at the movie and not seeing anything.

_That's how he was going to kill me._

_And I'm doing the same thing._

Again, he felt like something was missing, something deep within him. It refused to be placed again, remaining just outside of his conscious grasp. However, along with that feeling of incompletion came very strong pangs of guilt.

_How could I...I thought...I thought I was able to understand other people...I thought I could empathize, that I could...but I did the same thing he did. I did the same thing, I dehumanized him so that I could feel better about myself, so that I could...Oh my god...how...oh god, I didn't think...I didn't know that I...god, how often do I do this? Have I always been doing this? This is..._

And finally, he could find a reply. With it came a sense of fulfillment that erased his previous sense of loss. Finally he could find another stance in his argument.

_He's insane._

_But look at him. Look at him right now._

Edgar did. Johnny still remained curled tightly into himself, although due to his thin body structure this looked rather awkward. Spindly and thin limbs with empty space between body and knees, drawn as close to his chest as possible. He was staring at the screen with such fervor, such honest and genuine awe and admiration. It was obvious that he was enamored with this movie, that it brought him joy. Real, true joy.

He was happy.

He was happy and he was not hurting anyone.

It was _possible_.

_He's insane! He's insane he tried to KILL you._

_But look at him he can think he can be rational he's not entirely insane-_

_Shut up!_

_There's no middle ground here. You can't do this. Just...we can figure it out later just..._

Edgar sighed, looking back up at the screen. He struggled to forget his emotions, his logical confusion, to forget everything, and try to focus on the movie itself. It was not as if his mental discussion was going anywhere.

It took a while, but eventually he resided back into a calmer state, his mind slowing along with his breathing.

He could think about it later.

It really would have been a nice movie.

However, their enjoyment of the movie was ruined by something outside of their control.

The people behind them would not shut up.

It started out small at first. Just a whispered word occasionally. Edgar was willing to ignore that, actually. When the whispering turned into a loud conversation, one derisive and mocking of the movie playing, that's when Edgar felt annoyed.

That was also when Johnny uncurled from his pleasant ball, his expression now fallen back into the dangerously psychotic look that was all too frequent. He turned and glared at the two behind him.

Edgar watched and mentally noted something that probably was not too significant. In the face of Johnny's anger, the two behind him only laughed and ignored him...much like the people at the café did.

_Are you finding a pattern, dear boy?_

_That's not important._

"Be quiet." Johnny's voice was dangerous. Edgar could recognize that tone and what it meant, but now knew that it was not directed at him.

Unlike before at the café, he felt no fear for these two behind him. He did not fear that their lives would be ended, that Johnny would do something drastic.

He did not feel fear because instead he was beginning to find himself filling with quiet frustration and disappointment. Even the beginnings of anger, a true foreign emotion to him.

They had ruined something for Johnny. Ruined something that even Edgar could tell was not by any means normal or frequent. They were ruining this, ruining something he enjoyed, for no clear reason.

Edgar was not afraid for them.

He was not afraid for them.

_You're wishing Johnny on people again._

_I am._

_...Well?_

_...I'm just surprised. That's all._

Johnny turned around, his eyes staring at the screen intensely in an attempt to return to the level of immersion he had previously acquired. Edgar watched the claw-like hands grip the plastic armrests, palms pressing through the holes where cups were supposed to go.

_Be quiet._

It was a mental command directed at the two behind them, quickly and without much thought. But Edgar found that it somehow mirrored, in a lesser and much less threatening way, the same tone Johnny had used.

Johnny raised his feet and propped them up against the seat in front of him, sinking back into his chair. The clear expression on his face before, the freedom from whatever had dragged him down this far, was gone now. Johnny looked darkly sullen, on the verge of entirely losing his short temper.

It was quiet behind them for a while and Edgar hoped that maybe this experience would not be entirely ruined after all.

However, when he was with Johnny, that never, ever happened.

They began talking again. Loud, obnoxious voices, comparing the movie to others that Edgar was unfamiliar with. Talking about things other than the movie and then directly insulting the story.

Edgar was beginning to like this movie. Maybe it was just an association because it made Johnny so happy, but it wasn't important. He _liked this_ movie.

He found himself turning in his own chair, certain that his voice would not carry the same gravity or danger that Johnny's always seemed to have.

"Be quiet!"

At the sound of two conjoined voices, they turned and met glances at the same time. Edgar did not know Johnny was planning on doing the same thing...

_That was strange._

"We're trying to watch this." Edgar tried to make his voice carry any authority at all. It was obvious by the teenager's reaction that he failed. They giggled at him, mocking his tone, but did not outright respond.

Both turned back to the movie.

It was maybe fifteen minutes later that the kicking of Johnny's chair began.

With every blow, Edgar could sense the strands of Johnny's tentative grip on sanity breaking. He watched the thin fingers clench into fists, watched him grit his teeth in frustration.

They had tried to get the two behind them to be silent, but they refused to listen. They refused to listen to them, despite their continued efforts to get them to be silent.

Because they were not enjoying the movie, they had to ruin it.

Edgar was not frightened for them.

Not even close.

Edgar wanted to know what Johnny was planning on doing to them afterwards.

And, with only a slight sense of remorse and guilt, Edgar wanted to watch.

* * *

_What's happening to me..._

Edgar stared at his ceiling, at the all too-common off-white plaster. If you stare at something long enough, it begins to change. It begins to alter, to move, all in an effort to keep your mind interested. As it was, Edgar had been staring at the ceiling for almost an hour. It kept changing from an off-white to slightly more yellowish and back again.

Hardly prime-time television, but Edgar did not even notice.

He lay on his bed on top of the covers, still fully clothed.

His coat was in his closet. He made sure of that.

His arms were spread out at his sides, his hands resting at an angle slightly below his shoulders. Ironically, when he thought about his unintentional position it seemed rather familiar.

_This was how I was restrained before. Before when...when I first met him._

_You know, a religious person might say you were in something like a crucifixion-like pose. But then again, you seem to be losing your ties with that lately._

_That's not true. I asked for help when I came home. I prayed like I often do and will continue to do._

_Oh, and that fixes everything does it? Watch someone get tortured, electrocuted, and go home and pray? That makes you all good inside? What's wrong with you, Edgar. You're in such deep denial about something so simple._

_There's nothing to deny. I just..._

_Of course there's something to deny. You're denying your denial. Why are you lying on your bed staring at the ceiling?_

_I'm thinking._

_About what?_

_About...what happened I guess._

_And?_

_And what?_

_You tell me._

_And how I felt I suppose._

_And how did you feel?_

Edgar raised one of his arms off of the bed. It responded lazily, slowly, and he felt its weight clearly as he moved it. He hadn't moved in a long time. The arm finally rested across his eyes, blocking the changing white from his view.

He had taken off his glasses a long time ago when he realized there was nothing worth seeing.

_You felt good._

_I did not._

_You did. I bet if you hadn't decided to deny everything about yourself, you would have helped ol' Nny fasten the straps._

_That's not true and I'm not denying anything. This can't be me. This can't be who I'm...this can't be right. I'm not...didn't...wouldn't have..._

_You did. You did. You wanted to hurt them, Edgar. You wanted to hurt them._

_They were hurting him-_

_An eye for an eye makes-_

_Shut up! This isn't about me!_

_Then who IS it about, Edgar? What other magical person are we talking about?_

_Just shut up!_

Edgar realized with a start that he had spoken his last words out loud. With a sigh he pushed himself upwards, supporting himself on his hands as he hung his head.

Thank god he lived alone.

_Or what? People would think you're crazy?_

Edgar shook his head, narrowing his eyes in frustration.

_I don't want to think anymore._

_Too bad. You're still thinking because this is important. You're not listening._

Edgar, struggling to find something else to do rather than argue pointlessly with himself, unsteadily got to his feet. He plodded across the floor, flicking off the light and watching the room settle into almost total darkness.

_I'm not a bad person. I'm not. I really try not to be. I do._

_You certainly didn't try too hard back there._

Again his words found physical voice as he felt his way to his bed. "I'm not! Just shut up!"

_You're talking to yourself. Calm down._

_I don't...I'm not..._

_Listen._

_No. NO! I shouldn't be doing this! I didn't do this before, I never talked to myself before! Just shut up! This is my problem and I don't need to have stupid internal monologues to resolve it! Shut up!_

Edgar flopped down on his bed, his face burying into one of his pillows as he breathed hard. The short burst of fury had been unfamiliar to him. It was hard to think of times when he had truly gotten angry at anyone, truly furious at someone. Mild annoyance sure, but true anger...

It was hard to get him angry.

He didn't get angry before.

_What's happening to me...I'm losing my focus..._

_No, you lost your focus before._ Despite his threats, the internal conversation continued._ Remember the theater?_

_I don't...know what's right. He..._

_You let him capture those two. He's probably still torturing them now. You're letting this happen. You're-_

_It's not that simple. _Logic was coming back into play as he rolled over._ This is not a clear-cut issue of black and white ethics. I've been trying to make this simple and it's always been complicated._

_Well, how do you justify this? You can't. Not with good conscience._

_When I was in the theater...there was something there. Something..._

The image of Johnny lit by flickering colors and curled into his tight ball of happiness came to mind. It had been all he had been able to think about since he came home.

_Someone who suffers daily and probably hourly found some happiness for a few moments. Someone who-_

_You're defending him? You're defending him- Edgar, he tried to KILL you._

_He asked me to go with him to do something he enjoys. He wanted me to share that with him. Whether I like it or not he thinks I'm his friend...to some degree anyway._

_Do you think you're his?_

_...To some degree, Yes._

_Edgar, you know what that means._

_Logic doesn't have any place in this. I can't think of this rationally anymore because that's not what's involved! I don't know why but the incident at the theater proved it. Proved there's something there. Even if I hate it and it makes no sense, it bothered me to see him hurt and it made me happy to see him happy._

_...it made you happy?_

_...I don't know...did I say that?_

_You did, but...I don't recall-_

_Well, it's not important. This is the stupidest thing I've ever done but somehow along the line he became my friend-_

_Well, that still doesn't explain-_

_No, listen! I know that friends are supposed to look out for one another. I know that, everyone knows that. Therefore, to feel angry when he was hurt was justified-_

_No. NO. That's the mistake right there. Edgar, you allowed two human beings to suffer and you're making rationalizations to make yourself feel better about it! Yes, it's okay to feel bad if your friend's dog got run over but it's not okay to hunt down the guy in the mini-van and shoot him in the head! Edgar, you're beginning to fade._

_...To what?_

_You know. You're beginning to lose sight of what's important._

_No. I refuse to..._

_Edgar, you're changing. You're changing right now into something different. Something that allows the suffering of others. I doubt that's a righteous thing at all._

_I was protecting the happiness of someone else-_

_Who doesn't deserve it! Edgar, you don't know HOW many people he's killed! He was going to kill YOU! He probably doesn't even know you tried to help him! He doesn't care! He can't understand! You're sticking your head into a bear trap in an effort to understand how it works! It's curiosity, sick and twisted curiosity! There's no compassion in this relationship. To say you care is one of the greatest lies of all. To think that you would care is ludicrous and insulting._

_You're wrong. You're wrong._ _No I'm not._

_I saw him. I saw HIM at that theater. I saw what he used to be. And then I saw what made him that way. It wasn't his fault-_

_You don't know that! You don't know that and you're letting people die for it! You're letting people die so one man can watch a movie!_

_I can't..._

_What's happening to you?_

_God, this is so complicated..._

_You said so yourself._

_I'm not a bad person..._

_But you're doing bad things-_

"SHUT UP!"

Edgar lashed out with one arm in an effort to express his frustration at the dead-end conversation that his mind could not stop running over and over in his head. His hand crossed the dresser near his bed in its course, catching Scriabin by his outstretched arm. The action figure went flying, landing somewhere on the floor with a multitude of small thumps.

Edgar sat up to look for him before he realized there was no way he could see Scriabin anyway. He sank back down with a deep sigh.

_I'm not a bad person..._

Finally his mental argument had stilled.

That thought was what followed him into sleep.


	7. Experiment

It was hard to say exactly what kind of mental processes governed Johnny's mind. Edgar could only make guesses, and those were automatically flawed due to the crucial point that he was not insane.

That was one insight into reality he could not pretend to have.

Logical theories regarding Johnny's behavior never seemed to be correct...because Johnny was not logical. This was frustrating for Edgar, but he was beginning to get used to it. To expect the unexpected, as it were.

There's only so much you can expect however. So much you can assume, can guess about someone's motivations.

Edgar could not understand Johnny and he was fairly sure he did not want to. Johnny was demented in ways that Edgar did not want repeated. Stare too long and the abyss stares back at you.

That was the last thing Edgar wanted. Even if it gave him more insight to try and pretend to be insane...it was not worth it.

However, his recent thoughts had led him to one inevitable conclusion. Somehow, over the course of time, he had invested emotion into their relationship. An emotion other than fear.

He hesitated to classify it as affection because it did not seem like any kind of affection he knew of, but whatever this feeling was, it made him empathize with Johnny's position. Want to help him in small ways. Preserve those moments where Johnny seemed happy. Stopped suffering for just a short time.

Edgar rebelled against this feeling violently, recognizing it quickly as stupid and self-defeating. He doubted that Johnny cared very much about him at all, considering his capricious and moody nature, and he certainly was not interested in making Edgar happy.

And yet, somehow the connection of "friend" had been made, at least in Edgar's mind. In the flickering darkness of the movie theater, he had seen something that changed him. Changed his perspective.

Changed his reality.

So Edgar was unable to refuse when Johnny asked him to come over. He sounded eager about something, although he did not clarify exactly what it was. Not the most comforting unclarified mood for Johnny to be in, but then again...eager Johnny was better than suicidal Johnny and definitely far better than homicidal Johnny.

Edgar was already feeling somewhat afraid as he walked up to the door, fearing another surprise attack. Johnny had proven again and again that he could consistently ambush and incapacitate Edgar without any kind of trouble or warning.

He didn't trust him yet, and probably wouldn't for a long time.

The door yielded to him when he turned the knob and Edgar stepped inside. This time the surroundings seemed to have changed just subtly. The rabbit on the wall now was missing its head. The hideous Styrofoam things had been moved. A book was open on the floor and a pencil nearby.

But other than that, the house seemed to retain the same quality it always had. Broken, desolate, deserted, unkept, decaying, and old. In a way, it seemed the perfect environment for Johnny, and Johnny only. Edgar felt so out of place here.

Johnny was sitting on the couch and staring at the door intensely as if he had been willing Edgar to walk through it. Edgar could not guess as to how long he had sat there with that fixed, expectant expression.

Johnny looked more tired than the last time he had seen him. The dark rings under his eyes had expanded and darkened in color and the twitchiness present with an exhausted person, particularly the kind trying to hide such exhaustion, was painfully obvious.

"Nny?"

It was almost as if he was not there until he said something. The raspy, sharp voice broke the air.

"Ah, there you are."

Johnny smiled in what Edgar guess was supposed to be a disarming way.

Silence.

Unsure of what to do, Edgar turned and hung his coat on one of the nails protruding from the boards over the window.

He _did_ remember bringing his coat this time.

"I need to ask you something."

"Alright." Edgar logically guessed that this was something too important to discuss over the phone. He had no idea what it could be. He tucked his hands into his pockets.

"I'm having difficulty with my reality."

_No surprise there._  
  
"You may recall me mentioning how reality is somewhat relative. I'm beginning to question that in terms of it being relative to _me_. Something like...an anchor." Johnny ran a hand through his hair. "I'll get into that later. But lately it's become somewhat difficult for me to tell reality from fantasy. To remember what's real and what is not real. Things are kind of breaking down."

_He probably hasn't slept in a week. That would explain it. _

_Shut up, this is important._

"Breaking down?" Edgar felt as if he had to say something in response. Fortunately Johnny took this as an invitation to continue.

"The point's that I've been wondering about something for the last few days. You may have noticed..." Johnny looked at him for a moment, his expression changing along with his train of thought. "You're unique, you know that. I let you live. So I'm assuming you went to the police?"

Edgar nodded. No use in lying there, they were of no help anyway.

"And they didn't help you."

Edgar shook his head. "It was as if you didn't exist."

"Exactly!" Johnny's voice changed tone so quickly that Edgar could not help but jump. He was surprisingly exultant. "I can get away with anything. Almost nothing on earth can catch me, can touch me. To some extent, I am invulnerable."

Johnny lowered his arms, his expression and tone changing again. He stared intently at his hands, his voice soft and thoughtful.

"To some extent. That's why I asked you here. I want some clarification. I need you to do something for me."

"Well..." Edgar struggled to process this new information fast enough. "I'd be willing to help you, but I'm not sure exactly what you mean. What do you want me to do?"

"It's just a minor experiment. Nothing I hope will be too difficult for you."

_I doubt he meant that to be condescending._  
  
"I decided to ask you to do this because when you talk, it doesn't make me want to gouge out your eyes with forks." Johnny paused, looking clinically and distantly at something past Edgar entirely. Edgar was trying desperately to get that mental image out of his head and keep his facial expression neutral at the same time. "I may hazard to say I have grown almost fond of you. A friend, or at least as close as anyone could get."

Edgar did _not_ expect that.

"There was one before you that I did care deeply about. She and you are the main forces behind this theory of mine. You know how the police did nothing? How I can do almost anything and not get caught?"

Edgar nodded, not sure of how else to respond.

"I am invincible to petty, weak people. Those out there who have nothing better to do than wallow in humankind's collective shallow filth. The authorities are powerless. They can't find me, control me, or do anything to stop me. However."

Johnny paused again, although he seemed to be struggling to keep his clinically calm demeanor. "There seem to be...exceptions. I've suffered minor scratches at the hands of others, but no one can truly hurt me. But when I showed enough...when I seemed to care about people, they gain the ability to...change my reality, so to speak. To give them power to touch me."

_What happened to her? She escaped, didn't she? _

_Yes._

_So what happened to you?_

_Goodbye, Edgar._

"That woman..." Edgar almost snapped his fingers at the simple mental connection but restrained himself. "That woman you mentioned before..."

Johnny was silent for some period of time before he finally turned away, hands holding tightly onto his upper arms. Edgar was unable to see his face but the sadness in his words made it very clear.

"Devi hurt me."

There was a silence after this that Edgar felt exceedingly uncomfortable in. He had no idea how to respond, what to say to soothe something like that. He was notoriously bad at this. But he couldn't just stand here and say nothing...there had to be _some_thing...

Before he could speak, Johnny turned, breaking the silence. He had the same obsessively psychotic look he had before when he had tried to explain his motivation for killing Edgar. Whatever sadness that was present before seemed to be gone now.

"But you see, this is my point! No one else could ever touch me, but when I care, when I reach out to others, they, by association, can reach out to me. They can hurt me. They can affect my reality while other people flicker and vanish like phantoms. If I care, they can cause me pain."

Johnny turned and picked a small black thing off the floor smoothly, still talking as he did so. While he spoke, he moved forward, extending his hand and offering the black thing to Edgar. Unsure of what else to do, Edgar took it.

"I mentioned before that I could not die. That I was an anchor. To think that all this, this _entire_ reality, could depend on me. That could be why I don't die, why I can't be stopped. If I was a focal point for the entire universe, there would be no way that I could be killed. But Devi was able to inflict damage on me, and that puts an element of doubt into my theory. I want a definitive answer. I want a definite conclusion to this question."

Johnny stepped back, the tazer in Edgar's hand. He moved his arms behind his back, staring at him with a totally deadpan expression.

"So Edgar, I want you to kill me."

Edgar stood there for a few moments before finally a word came to mind.

"...What?"

Johnny leaned back, resting against the side of his couch as his demeanor again changed, this time to the same carefree kind of tone he had used in describing the death of the store clerk. "Haven't you ever used a tazer? It's simple, just point it at my head-"

"Nny, that's not the point!" Edgar was having a great deal of difficulty in keeping his voice under control. He had not prepared for this. He had no idea what to do, but he had to make sure he stayed calm. Johnny was in a precarious state...he had to be careful. "Do you know what you're asking me?"

Almost like a small child, Johnny inclined his head at him and responded with a kind of cheerful innocence. "I'm asking you to help me."

Edgar sighed.

_It would seem like that to him._  
  
"I think we have different definitions of help here." Edgar looked down at the black thing in his hands as he tried to phrase himself correctly. "I can't...this isn't..."

Johnny just stared at him.

Edgar took a deep breath as he collected himself, carefully constructing his sentences before they found voice. "I would have to disagree with you on this point, Nny. The logic here is somewhat flawed. If you are an anchor for reality, as you said, then you would not be able to die, or else by association the universe would collapse as well."

_There you go. Open with an agreement to his previous statement, then..._  
  
"Your...'invisibility' lends credibility to that but..." Edgar again took another breath, hoping to keep his voice steady and even. Johnny just continued to stare at him. "The argument for Devi does not make sense."

_That felt weird. _

_What?_

_Saying her name._

_It's not important right now._

"Even if you only could be hurt by people you care about, being injured is vastly different from being killed. I could be deathly wounded but still survive. If I were an anchor, as you claim to be, then I could be beaten to an inch of my life, but the universe would remain intact because I would be alive. The fact Devi hurt you would not prove or disprove your 'status' as an anchor. Also, I'm not sure why only people you cared about would be able to breach this barrier of realities...you'd think it would be the other way around. That someone you cared about would help you build a wall, to protect you from harm."

Johnny was sinking slowly, leaning heavily onto his arms as he sat on the armrest. His eyes narrowed at Edgar dangerously.

_Not good. This is not good. Say something, quick. Say something nice or something, try to calm him down._  
  
"This is all just skirting the primary issue, though." Edgar, at the sight of Johnny just staring at him so intensely, was feeling somewhat frightened and nervous. "It doesn't really matter if you are correct or not, I wouldn't try to kill you anyway. It's-"

_It's not my nature It's not right It's not legal It's not_  
  
"I mean...you mentioned before that you had become somewhat...'fond' of me. That you kind of consider me your friend." That still seemed entirely unbelievable. "Now I feel that you are to some extent my friend as well, and as such I don't want to hurt you. I...I would not be _able_ to kill you, even if you gave me a logically sound reason."

_That's not true. _

_Shut up._

Johnny just glared at him. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft and unemotional. "So you're not going to help me."

Edgar turned away, hoping that he was doing the right thing and saving his own life at the same time.

_Would you be willing to compromise one for the other? _

_This is not the time._

"Not in this way, no."

There was a pause as Edgar stared at the small electric device in his hands.

_You said yourself he's in constant pain. This world doesn't seem to want him here. It rejects him. Violently. He rejects it back. He's suffering, collapsing, and he said himself he doesn't know what's real. He wants you to make it stop. _

_No. I can't do that._

_I thought you wanted to help him feel good._

_I am NOT going to kill him._

_You contradict yourself an awful lot._

_It's not intentional and I am not going to-_

He heard the slightest sound of motion behind him. This was followed by an angry, vicious scream.

"YOU BASTARD!"

Edgar whirled in time to see Johnny leap from his perch on the armrest, his knife almost seeming to have appeared in his hand.

A few seconds later and the back of Edgar's head hit the floor violently, his glasses jarred from his face due to the impact. A moment of dizziness, a loss of vision, then he was able to make out a vague form crouched above him, holding the knife at an obviously threatening angle.

The same psychotic, almost panicked voice.

"KILL ME!"

"_NO_!"

With the first word that came to mind, Edgar unintentionally almost matched Johnny's tone.

Johnny raised the blade high, preparing for the final blow, when something seemed to stop him. He was silent for only a moment before he raised his eyes and voice to the ceiling with a familiar tone of injured dignity.

"I swear to god, this happens every time! _Every_ time I try to do _one_ thing, every time I try to make myself happy, to end this painful and stupid existence, something ruins everything! Something wants to see me here, to see me writhe in pain at the hands of those vicious creatures out there that call themselves human!"

Without thinking, Edgar's free hand began to grope around on the floor for the dropped tazer, his blurry and unfocused eyes staring at Johnny in confusion. Apparently, Johnny had become so interested in his own self-righteous speech that he had forgotten about Edgar. The hand once intended to deliver a killing blow now gestured dramatically.

"I want this to stop, I want to know for certain, I want this uncertainty to stop! I want to know things and the only person who can tell me won't help me! He refuses! Why? If you truly _were_ my friend, Edgar, then you would have helped me! If you truly cared at all, you would try to make my reality _permanent_! To stop this shifting and endless confusion! To make everything _stop_! God!"

_Interesting that he calls on him too._  
  
Edgar was too concerned in finding the tazer to think of a response. His fingers brushed against some shards of glass, the hardened places in the carpet where liquid had forced the threads to bind together, vague moist areas as if someone had spilled something, crumbs that seemed to be everywhere and gritted against his skin. Finally, he felt cool plastic and he closed his fingers quickly around the device.

Johnny continued gesturing and speaking, although it seemed as if he was not speaking to Edgar at all.

"Do you know what it's like? Do you? To wake up and wonder if everything is a dream? To wake up and not know if you woke up _at all_? To continually fight against a brutal and unrelenting stream of human shit and make no progress? I'm spinning in circles and there's nothing I can do! I don't even know if it's a circle anymore! Fuck, it could be an octagon for all I know! This is my point! You don't know what this is like! You sit there in your tower and tell me that you're my _friend_, and yet when I give you my salvation you throw it back in my face! Can you think of anyone but yourself, or are you just as selfish as those out there, only you've hidden it better? I asked for one thing, just ONE thing! I wanted to die and I wanted your help and you wouldn't give it to me! How could you _do_ this to me?"

_I had no idea he was _this_ messed up._  
  
Johnny seemed to regain his composure, remembering that he had the object of his current malice pinned beneath him. His eyes turned back down to his captive prey, angry and accusing. "Well, never mind. I'll kill you, then myself. I don't need you after all."

Sometimes it is difficult to understand someone else's motivations, the mental processes that govern their behavior.

Sometimes, it is as clear as one word.

Survive.

As Johnny raised the knife again, now staring down at his prey with the same clinically detached look that Edgar was so familiar with, Edgar acted. Without any kind of true conscious thought, his hand flew upwards blindingly.

Unexpectedly.

Johnny had no time to react before the electricity flooded into him and then all he could do was convulse. His hand opened involuntarily, thin fingers jerking, moving independently of one another as the knife fell to the floor.

The current stopped after a few long seconds.

Johnny squeaked.

Then he fell.

Edgar took several deep breaths, the sheer adrenaline running through his body making it difficult to think clearly.

He looked over to one side, finding Johnny lying inert on the ground, eyes wide open. He had fallen to one side although his legs had not completely followed his motion. One rested across Edgar's own legs while the other was trapped beneath Johnny's own thin body. The man's hands lay uselessly at his sides, unmoving.

_It is at this point, Edgar, that I would like to suggest you run._  
  
Edgar stared at Johnny's body for a few moments, unable to fully comprehend what he had done. Only his heartbeat thudding into his ears and the soft sound of his breathing broke the silence.

_Did I do that? How could I...did I? I..._  
  
Finally, he found actions and pushed Johnny's legs off of him then moving over to one side where he could examine him more clearly.

"Oh my god..."

He rolled him onto his back and Johnny remained stubbornly unresponsive. His wide glassy eyes stared ghoulishly at the ceiling, pupils frozen in position.

All kinds of emotions surged into Edgar but the predominant one was panic.

"Oh my god, Nny! Nny, are you okay? I didn't mean to...oh god..."

_Congratulations Edgar, you killed him. Let's go to Disneyworld._  
  
Edgar narrowed his eyes at his own mental disrespect.

_You're not helping. _

_That's not what I do._

Edgar struggled to ignore his inner voice as he stared down at his body. With every passing second of silence Edgar felt more and more panicked. He had to do something, say something, quickly! He found himself holding his head, his hands desperate to be doing something at such a time of emotional stress.

"I didn't...what if I _did_ kill him? Oh god, if I _did_ kill him...I'm not invisible like he is, I'll be caught!" He paused and thought about his own words with some degree of distaste. "And why do I think that's important? I could have killed him! I _did_ kill him! I didn't mean to...I didn't want to hurt him, but...oh god..."

Edgar buried his hands in his hair, unable to deal with such a sudden rush of emotion. He had always kept his emotions in strict order, but now he was completely out of control. He spiraled into his own morass of feelings that he never experienced and therefore could not identify. He could not find any kind of landmark, some kind of place where he could stop feeling for a moment and find a way back to rationality.

He did not know what to do.

His body was jerky and responded too quickly, too slowly. His heartbeat continued to beat louder, beating through his hands, the sound echoing in his mind.

He had never felt something this strongly before.

Then again, he had never killed someone before.

He breathed hard, struggling to keep himself under control and to not bolt from the house in fear. What could he do? There had to be something he could do, there had to be something-

Johnny coughed.

Edgar stopped dead and stared down at Johnny's now moving body with shock and some degree of horror.

"Oh my god, Nny, Nny are you okay? I-"

Johnny burst into maniacal laughter, startling Edgar into wide-eyed silence. "Ha ha ha ha! I no die! I _knew_ it! Mwa ha ha ha!"

Edgar had been panicked before, paralyzed with all sorts of indescribable emotions, but now all he felt in response to Johnny's inexplicable resurrection was annoyance.

Johnny searched until he found the tazer, looking at it gleefully. "Hee hee, right to the brain! Hee hee! I can't die! I'm invincible! Nothing can touch me! Hee hee!"

_That wasn't the reaction you expected, was it? _

_How can he be this way?_

_There's no good answer to that. Where are your glasses?_

Edgar busied himself looking for his lost spectacles while Johnny continued to talk, although this time it was definitely not to Edgar.

"What? So what if I forgot to recharge it! It means the same thing! Something prevented me from doing that! Something doesn't want me to die either way so it doesn't matter if I forgot or not, D-boy!"

_Who is he talking to? _

_Do you really have to ask?_

Edgar finally found his glasses and put them back on, taking deep breaths. He felt furious with Johnny, angry at him for putting him through this kind of emotional turmoil, for making him lose control and sending him falling for that terrifying moment-

"Thanks for your help, Edgar." Johnny's voice was light and carefree again. "I feel better now."

_I can't believe this._  
  
Edgar brushed a hand through his hair as he struggled to control his emotions.

_I can't believe he wanted me to kill him, he...alright, I have to calm down. Yelling at him would not be helpful in this situation. If he feels good, that's a good thing. I should try to preserve that. I'll just calmly explain that I did not appreciate- _

_Edgar! Living doormat!_

_Not now-_

_Edgar, this is just pathetic! Look at yourself! Listen to yourself! You're letting him walk all over you! This isn't healthy! He tried to get you to kill him and then tried to kill you! AGAIN! Why do you even care? Tell the little skinny bastard off! If you're angry, tell him so! It's not healthy and it's not natural to try and keep something inside like this! You deny more and more of normal humanity while you claim to be something you're not!_

_You talk as if we have a normal relationship. I can't yell at him because of one very fundamental reason. In fact, the reason this relationship exists at all. He can kill me. If I yelled at him now, I could only push him over the edge again and possibly get him to kill me and/or himself, successfully this time. Yelling at him would only make me feel better for a short period and then end either in my death or me feeling guilty later. I won't yell at him because it's a foolish thing to do. I'm going to be mature about this and deal with it in a mature manner._

_Mature about this- mature about this- Edgar he tried to kill you AGAIN. How could you be mature about this? Is it mature to hide from your feelings like a little girl? Is that maturity? Is it mature to let him use you and constantly injure you just because you're afraid of him? That is why you won't do anything back, isn't it? You're just terrified of him and making all these emotional justifications-_

"Sorry about all this."

Johnny's still light and carefree voice broke his thoughts. Edgar turned and stared at him.

_What did he say?_  
  
"Sorry...?"

"Yeah." Johnny smiled at him in that same childish, happy way. "Want to watch TV?"

Edgar just stared at him blankly, unable to think of any response for almost a minute. Finally, he nodded his head.

"Alright."

_Every time I think he can't surprise me, he manages to prove me wrong._  
  
Edgar stood unsteadily, brushing himself off to hide his shaking limbs. Johnny sprang to his feet with same unearthly agility that accompanied almost all his moments and lept over the arm of the couch to land near the end. He clicked the TV on and leaned back, again almost as if Edgar was not there.

Edgar walked and sat at the other end of the couch warily, still watching Johnny distrustfully. As with the movie theater, Johnny had lost all interest in him and now was focused on the television screen.

_I can't believe this. _

_Isn't that something. Everything that you were currently worried about all erased. Just like that! With a click of a button, he's forgotten about you entirely, Edgar. Why do you care about him at all?_

_I don't necessarily care about him. You could almost call it an obligation, but that's not the correct word either._

_Either way, it doesn't matter. Whatever 'obligation' you feel towards him obviously isn't returned. It's a waste of time. A waste of emotion. A-_

_Do you ever shut up? Can I sit here for a few hours and watch television without thinking about the entire universe and my place in it for a few seconds? Can I? Is that okay with you?_

Silence.

He appreciated it so much more lately.

* * *

Hours passed.

Edgar had no obligation to fulfill the following day, so he was not too concerned about the passage of time.

Johnny had control of the remote and Edgar did not even consider asking for it. It seemed that Johnny had a somewhat dubious taste in television, compared to his previous choice of film, but Edgar enjoyed it to some degree. It wasn't entirely bad. Just not his personal preference.

He noted, with some interest, a commercial for Zeitgeist flick by as Johnny changed channels. Actually seeing Scriabin in motion, even for only a few seconds, was incredibly disconcerting. His mental image of Scriabin had been cemented as the small action figure. To see him move was...eerie to some degree.

As time went by, he noticed that Johnny was beginning to drift occasionally. He had leaned his head against the armrest of the couch after the first few shows. His eyes would close for only a few minutes before he would awaken, his entire body jerking as if he had been shocked again.

With each of these catnaps came the same series of questions.

"Who are you? What are you doing in my house?"

"I'm Edgar and you invited me here. Remember?"

That seemed to give him a frame of reference, something that he could base a reality on, and he would settle back to watching the screen. However, with each lapse in control Johnny seemed to be getting more irritated. It was easy to guess that he was not too fond of sleeping and the fact he was succumbing to it was only making him more frustrated.

Edgar was not exceptionally tired, but then again he had slept the previous night. From the jerkiness of Johnny's motions, the dark bags under his eyes, the occasional yawns, uncontrollable catnaps, and perhaps an increase in the instability of his reality, all seemed to point to a severe lack of sleep. For how long Edgar could not guess. He was not an expert in this field. A week? A few days? A month? How long had Johnny been awake?

Hard to say. But his body wanted to sleep. Johnny's mind refused.

Eventually, in an apparent effort to stave off his encroaching sleepiness, Johnny stopped leaning against the armrest and sat bolt upright in the direct center of the couch, arms crossed sulkily as he stared forward.

Edgar sat beside him, mentally debating whether or not he should shake Johnny awake if he drifted off again. He doubted that would be a good idea.

Eventually, Johnny's head fell backwards against the couch and he fell asleep, this time semi-permanently. Unable to find any other measure of time, Edgar waited, wondering how long this nap would last. Two programs started and ended, but Johnny did not move. Only the somewhat labored sounds of Johnny's windpipe, bent at what had to be an uncomfortable angle, broke the banter of the television.

_Should I go? I mean...he's asleep. Really asleep now. I don't know if he wants me here. _

_Or rather, if you want to be here when he wakes up. He's not exactly the best person to wake up next to. He's nuts._

_Really? I hadn't noticed. Either way...I should probably go. He needs more room on the couch anyway._

Edgar sat up straight and stretched his tired and somewhat aching back. He yawned silently to himself, feeling the sudden unexpected onset of his own exhaustion. Maybe movement had brought it to his attention.

Feeling somewhat clumsy from staying in one position for so long, he leaned against the cushions beside him in order to get leverage to lift himself upwards.

However, he forgot that this sometimes affected other people resting on the cushions.

Johnny, who had turned away from Edgar slightly in his sleep, now rolled towards him, following the depression of the cushion he was resting on. Edgar froze in his position, hand still pressing downwards.

Johnny continued to shift along with the cushion. Edgar watched with a rising sense of panic as his head began to slip from the back of the couch, his body falling towards him.

Without conscious thought, Edgar angled himself towards him and moved forward, using his side and shoulder to block his fall. Or at least, that was his intent.

Instead, all he did was provide Johnny a new place to rest.

Now he was trapped against the armrest, Johnny resting against him. His right arm was trapped against his lap underneath Johnny's body, his left propped up against the armrest, desperately keeping himself upright.

_Oh shit. _

_Oh shit!_

_What do I do now!_

_This isn't good this isn't good at all I have to do something I have to..._

_Well, you can't wake him up. Could you imagine his reaction? If he freaked out so much before just because you were in his house, imagine how he would feel if he woke up and found himself lying on you with no explanation._

_What should I do? What should I do! I don't know, I don't know, this is-_

_Calm down, first of all. Can you move him?_

Edgar tried to gently push Johnny off of him, but now the angle of Johnny's head had changed. He was resting against his shoulder, close enough so that his hair brushed against his face. With light experimentation, Edgar determined that moving or pushing his body away would allow Johnny's head to fall or twist away, waking him up.

_Shit!_

_Such profanity. Stay calm and try to think logically. You can't move him, right?_

_Apparently not._

_You can't reach anything, right?_

_No._

_No pillows or anything?_

_I haven't seen a pillow in this house anywhere. I think he sleeps on this couch. If he does sleep._

_Well, we determined that he does, in fact, do that. The problem now is how he is going to react. He's not going to like this at all._

_I know but-_

_I'm trying to think. He mentioned that realities kept shifting for him, and his previous behavior indicated that he has problems with that when he sleeps. He thinks reality has shifted again when he wakes. Can't tell dream from life._

_I know this all already._

_When he wakes up, he won't know if this is reality or a dream._

_And your point?_

_I'm trying to think. Lying and telling him this is a dream would not be a good choice here. He would eventually figure out that we lied and therefore, he would kill you. However, claiming this is reality won't work either. This wasn't his reality when he fell asleep. It obviously changed._

_This isn't getting me anywhere._

_...I can't think of anything._

_...shit._

_And I think my arm is falling asleep. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * * *
> 
> Author's Note: You should all get Massive Attack's Everywhen, Ben Fold's The Ascent of Stan and Carrying Cathy, and a song called Yellowstone by Rhexx, cause those songs have inspired a ton of this fic. Seriously.


	8. Up

Edgar managed to trap himself in an exceedingly uncomfortable position. Not only did his arm fall asleep shortly after it was trapped underneath Johnny's thin body, but he had no place to comfortably rest his head. The best he could manage was uncomfortably twisting it to one side which made his neck cramp, but was passable.

He _was_ tired, after all. Even in the strangest of scenarios, the human body will find some way to sleep.

He used his free hand to remove his glasses and set them somewhere on the floor, although he could not bend his body to see exactly where. With a soft resigned sigh, he tried to settle into a position that would at least allow him a few hours of rest before he was brutally murdered.

However, he still felt nervous which made sleep hard to come by. He had yet to come up with a solution to this situation, something that had not happened before to his knowledge, and he was understandably jittery. Small soft movements became jerky, quick things that felt wrong and only served to make him more uncomfortable. So he stopped moving entirely.

His entire body felt as if he was on fire, tingles shooting through his arm as the blood continued to drain from it. He was introduced to several new kinds of sensations through this experience, actually. After a period of time he could almost feel geometric shapes of pain spreading and rising through various areas of his arm. At that point, however, he blamed this new perception on a lack of sleep and general mental unrest.

He leaned against the couch cushions with his head bent at an uncomfortable angle, utterly miserable. Johnny, however, was sleeping quite soundly. His eyes were shut tightly and his arms were curled across his chest. Even in his sleep Johnny seemed to be protecting himself from some unknown assailant.

_Enjoy it while you can, Edgar. This is probably the last time you'll ever see him like this. Asleep, I mean._  
  
Edgar tried to slow his breathing and clear his mind, struggling to bring sleep to him. However, it seemed rather reluctant to come, so he focused on other trivial things, hoping to bore his mind into a quieter state. The television was still on but Edgar had begun to block that out. The pictures were fuzzy, even with his glasses, and he had no interest in the programming. Once he began to ignore the incessant noise of the television and pay more attention to his surroundings, he could feel the faintest vibration through the floor. Some kind of machinery, he supposed...he knew this house extended deep into the earth, although he had no idea how far. It was possible that something below him...

Johnny's head rested upon his shoulder, tilted towards the television screen. Not only had Edgar lost the feeling to the majority of his body, the only position that he could find for his head happened to just be in range of Johnny's hair. A few irritating strands brushed against his face when their breathing slipped into the right pattern, a constant reminder that he was going to die in a few hours.

He found himself unconsciously matching Johnny's breathing. That was somewhat peculiar, but not entirely illogical when he thought about it. His mind was searching for ways to drift off to sleep and found an alternative to counting sheep.

When Johnny breathed, he could feel the bones in his back moving against his arm even in its deadened state. During deep breaths or sighs, he could feel a bone move sharply out of place, Johnny's body shifting position unwillingly along with it. The bone thudded back when he breathed out.

He was definitely too thin.

Eventually, his breathing matched along with his unwilling companion's, Edgar managed to drift off to sleep. It was fitful and filled with disturbing dreams, but that did not really surprise him.

* * *

He woke up when fingers wrapped tightly around his throat.

Edgar blinked and stared blearily upwards at the vague face above him, unable to discern any detailed emotion.

Then again, that was not really necessary.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

The grip around his neck tightened meaningfully and Edgar coughed. It was not tight enough to choke, but it was certainly tight enough to get his attention.

Now that he had come back to consciousness, his arm began to hurt as feeling came back. Keeping it still was painful enough, but moving it felt a million times worse. This, coupled with the threatened death-by-asphyxiation, made it difficult to concentrate.

_Keep calm and be rational..._  
  
"You fell asleep while we were watching TV." Edgar glanced at the screen. He couldn't see any colors...maybe it was off. "You kind of...fell on me. I would've moved you, but I didn't want to wake you up-"

"Didn't want to-" The fierce tightening around his neck this time caused a serious lack of air. Edgar now couldn't help but gag, his body reacting out of his control. His arms lifted feebly to try and fight Johnny, to defend himself in some way, but Edgar forced them back down quickly. That was not his solution to the problem. "Didn't want to-? Haven't I made it pretty fucking clear that I fucking hate sleeping! What- haven't you been paying any attention at all?"

"I'm...aware...of that..." Edgar struggled to both breath and keep his voice steady underneath the current pressure. His arm twitched involuntarily as the pain slowly began to fade. Johnny noted the desperate gasps for air between Edgar's words and reluctantly lessened the pressure. Taking deep breaths thankfully, Edgar hoped that his thin, raspy voice would sound apologetic. "I didn't know how you'd react if you woke up that way."

_I don't think mentioning that he needs sleep would be a good idea._  
  
Johnny glared at him but that was all Edgar was able to discern without his glasses. Slowly the grip around his neck loosened further and finally left altogether, although Johnny's voice made it clear that he was not safe.

"How I'd react."

Edgar took a deep breath, holding it for a few moments in case his air would again be cut off. Again, his hand raised, although this time it naturally wanted to inspect his throat. He fought that urge away without any outward sign as he tried to further defuse the situation.

"I didn't want to startle you."

"Waking up to this startled me pretty good, don't you think?" Johnny hissed at him, although the anger in his voice had diminished.

"If I could have, I would've moved you. But I was trapped. There was nothing I could do."

"Well, why were you there at all?" Johnny was staring at him so intensely that Edgar dared not break eye contact to search for his glasses. "Why didn't you go home, Edgar?"

There was a great deal of anger and hatred in Johnny's voice, particularly when pronouncing his name.

_The bear trap has sprung. Congratulations, you're stupid._  
  
"I didn't..." Edgar struggled to find words that would pacify Johnny. "I thought maybe if I left while we were watching TV, you'd think I didn't want to be here."

_That's technically true. _

_You make it sound like it's because you care about him. You just didn't want him to kill you. That obviously didn't work._

Johnny sat back on his heels while he continued to stare at him. His knees were bent and touching his shoulders, his arms resting on the couch between his legs. He looked very much like a cat.

"You _want_ to be _here_." Johnny's voice made it painfully clear that he did not believe him. Edgar did not blame him.

"I-"

"You're just like-!" Johnny hissed suddenly, moving forward with blinding speed until Edgar was pressed against the arm of the couch, struggling to breathe as the fingers again closed around his throat. "Just like the others-...you lying..."

Edgar wheezed, struggling to think of anything coherent while his oxygen supply was being cut off. Johnny was close enough now that he could see his facial expression and, curiously enough, he had the distant expression that was common during pauses in conversation.

He was listening again.

Edgar struggled to breathe as Johnny very slowly looked down, apparently thinking deeply about something. Eventually his head dipped so far that Edgar could no longer see his face, just the top of his head. The grip around his neck loosened and Johnny moved backwards, falling back into the same catlike pose as before. Now with shoulders hanging loose and his face hidden, the previously predatory cat looked almost mournful.

"Why aren't you scared of me."

Another non-question.

"What?"

_What is he talking about? It's pretty obvious you're scared of him I think._  
  
"Why didn't you run? I attacked you last night...tried to kill you..." One of the hands rose slowly to Johnny's face, fingers running near his eyes before eventually taking residence buried deep in his hair. "I tried to kill you _now_...what are you doing? Why are you doing this? Why aren't you scared of me?"

_Don't be honest._  
  
"I _am_ scared of you to some degree."

_I said don't be honest!_  
  
Edgar slowly rubbed at his bruised windpipe now that Johnny did not seem to be paying attention. Edgar watched him silently, again finding himself scrambling for the elusive soothing words that he could never fully grasp, and Johnny lowered himself slowly downwards towards the couch, almost as if falling in slow-motion.

_Don't be honest, don't do this, you're so close to getting away, don't do this-_  
  
"You frighten me a lot, really. Like...now for example." Still slowly falling downwards. The descent ended with Johnny on his side, curled into a fetal position with one hand still tangled in his hair. "When you attack me like this. But...I know..." _I don't know._ "You're an intelligent guy and I know..." _You DON'T know._ "I mean...it's...it kind of balances out."

_You're so bad at this._  
  
"I do enjoy spending time with you to some extent-"

_You're a liar, Edgar. That's not the reason at all. It's because Johnny's the only friend you have. He's the only friend you have and you NEED friends, Edgar, you NEED them, so you're clinging to him and it's eventually going to get you killed- _

_That's not true at all. I don't feel lonely, I don't need friends, and I'm not going to lie to get out of this._

In the pause that followed as Edgar mentally debated which course in the conversation to take, Johnny uncurled slightly, enough so that Edgar could note his face, although still could not make out his expression. He could see the wide dark eyes staring at him apathetically.

"You're scared of me."

Edgar was, ironically enough, frightened to respond. Eventually he managed to nod. Johnny curled back into himself.

_What's he doing? What is he doing? Am I...what should I do? Should I say something? This isn't good at all. _

_Oh no, the mean Edgar made the poor serial killer cry. Waa waa. Let's call a hotline._

_I swear to god, if you say one more thing-_

_You're talking to yourself, remember? You should get your glasses while he's not watching._

Finally deciding that that at least was a good piece of advice, Edgar looked over the edge of the couch and felt around for a few moments before finally finding the missing spectacles. With the world back in focus, Edgar again felt the same surge of confidence that he had experienced before. This was becoming increasingly...predictable. At least that was one thing he could depend on.

Johnny was still curled into a ball on the couch, although now he was trembling almost imperceptibly. Although he had only moved his attention to something else for a few seconds, Edgar felt somewhat guilty that he had not been giving him his full attention. This, obviously, was not one of his better moods.

"Nny?"

"Not...yet..." Whispered, angry words. Edgar paused awkwardly for a moment before nervously moving a little closer to him.

"I'm sorry...what?"

"I didn't want to go to sleep...I _hate_ sleeping..." Johnny refused to look at him, breathing heavily into himself, his face still hidden. His words were laced with anger and betrayal. "Why did you let me do that?"

"I'm sorry." Edgar struggled to think of something to say as he rubbed the back of his head awkwardly. He guessed that in a normal relationship, he would have perhaps put a hand on Johnny's shoulder or otherwise touched him in some comforting way, but he knew that Johnny seemed to dislike being touched. That was the general impression he had got from him at least. That and he still felt nervous being close to him. "I'll make a note of it, if you want. I won't let it happen again."

_What? What does that mean? Does that mean you're going to let this become a regular thing? _

_I just want to calm him down-_

_Liar liar-_

_Stop it, this isn't the time-_

Johnny suddenly tensed, all of his muscles tightening and shivering, but he kept his face hidden.

"Get out."

The anger in his voice made the thorns more noticeable and painful. Edgar moved away from him slowly, trying to be as smooth and silent as possible. He was not about to disobey.

"Get out now. I don't want to talk to you anymore."

Edgar now stood, backing his way towards the door quickly. Not wanting Johnny to be under the impression of him still being present, Edgar ventured to speak in a soft, calm voice. "Alright."

Johnny abruptly leapt out of his curled position, claws grasping at where Edgar had been only a moment before. Unprepared for his absence, Johnny lashed out frantically at where Edgar should have been before he clumsily fell against the couch. He propped himself up on the armrest and struggled to regain his lost dignity and grace as he glared at Edgar with unconcealed hatred. When he finally spoke, his voice was furious, shrill, and almost panicked.

"_Get OUT_!"

Edgar scrabbled behind him desperately for the doorknob, hoping that Johnny would not continue his failed lunge towards him. The door slid open and Edgar ran outside, slamming the door behind him.

From inside he heard an incoherent scream of rage, followed by the sound of something breaking.

_I think he took that rather well._  
  
Edgar was in his car and away as fast as he could possibly go.

* * *

_And you said he was your friend._  
  
Edgar was sitting in his room the day after he had left the psychotic man's house, still running over what had happened in his mind. Johnny's behavior, as always, was a mystery to him, particularly his reaction when he had woken up.

Perhaps he was as mutable as he claimed to be...that when he woke, he had found or was displaying an entirely new personality.

It was far more likely that Johnny was just exceptionally angry and wanted Edgar out. He found that was more logically leaning towards the latter option.

_I don't understand. _

_How many times do you have to go over this?_

Edgar toyed with Scriabin's arms, listening to the soft squeaking sounds of plastic moving against plastic.

_I want to understand. I don't care how long it takes. _

_Oh! This is my favorite show! Oh wait, it's a repeat. Never mind._

_I'm going to ignore that. So how did it begin...I went over and he asked me to kill him..._

_That's right._

_And he said it was because he cared about me to some degree._

_Not exactly. He said he didn't want to kill you._

_Different definitions._

_Not in my opinion._

_...He said he wanted me to kill him and I refused. He attacked me in an effort to force me to do so. At least I know he was sincere in...not wanting to kill me, if that's how you want to phrase it._

_I think that keeps it in perspective._

_So I knocked him out...when he came to, he apologized and asked if I wanted to watch TV._

_Another point in favor of his personality changing whenever he wakes up._

_I think that's something of a misleading answer. I think Johnny's just..._

_Insane._

_...In so many words._

_One word._

_At any rate, we watched some television and he fell asleep._

_On you._

_That was an accident._

_Doesn't change anything._

Edgar sighed to himself and rolled his eyes.

_When he woke up, he tried to kill me again. He obviously didn't like waking up that way. _

_Who would?_

_So then I tried to explain why I hadn't moved him-_

_Don't ignore me._

_I wouldn't if you had anything of importance to say._

_...But he did not accept my explanation...he was confused. He asked me why._

_You didn't give him a good answer._

_...I didn't..._

_You didn't know the answer._

_...When he was curled up like that...I thought maybe I could..._

_What? Take advantage of it? Talk to him when he's not angry? Exploit those moments when he doesn't want to kill? More safety for you, more pain for him._

_That's not what I meant..._

_Or is it because that kind of silence, that sadness and longing that you're so very attracted to, was quite similar to how he looked at the movie?_

Edgar paused and looked up from the toy in his hands to the wall, although that was not what he was focusing on.

Pictures flashed through his mind rapidly, small snippets of memories. The happiness at the theater. The sadness on the couch. The loneliness in his voice. The childish joy when he asked if he would watch television with him.

But happiness and sadness kept flashing back and forth.

Back and forth.

Happiness and sadness-

_Have you ever felt that way, Edgar?_  
  
Edgar's eyes drifted down again until they rested on Scriabin's plastic form. His arms were resting at his side, although the general unthreatening effect of this was negated by his permanent hold on the plastic gun.

_Have you ever really felt at all, Edgar? _

_...I don't understand. What are you getting at?_

_You really pride yourself on being better, you know that. You almost had it in the theater. You almost realized how much of a self-absorbed prick you are. But instead, you just lapsed back into it again._

_If anyone is trying to view Nny as something less than human, it's you. You're constantly reminding me that he's insane and he should be avoided. I don't think you have any place-_

_That's off the topic. The point is you feel better than others. No...that's not even the point. Think about it. Think about it, Edgar. That rush of emotion on his face, those tears. When have you cried, Edgar? When have you ever wanted to kill? Wanted to rip someone apart? When have you curled into a ball and shivered?_

_You've never done those things. Not that you can recall. You're an empty shell of a man, Edgar. You feel nothing. You even felt nothing in the face of your impending death, and the entire purpose of life is to avoid dying. The maniac that you felt so pleasantly above, that you're studying in such a scientific and detached manner now in an effort to understand his emotions, can feel things. He can feel things you only read and see but never experience._

_Johnny may go back and forth wildly amidst a range of emotions, but at least he has those emotions at all, Edgar. You only veer between mild fear and alarm to vague sadness. That annoyance at the theater was the closest thing to becoming human you've felt in a long time. Why do you stay with Johnny, Edgar? Why don't you feel lonely?_

_I-_

_You. Why? You couldn't answer me before._

_I-_

_Why don't you feel anything, Edgar? Is it because you have to understand everything, and emotion can only complicate understanding? Why haven't you pushed Johnny away? You can't understand him._

_But you envy him, Edgar._

_That's ridiculous._

_You envy him because he can feel things. He can feel enough to do something about it._

_I don't envy him. God, why would I? Nny lives a terrible life. From what I've gathered, from his misery at sleep to his general hatred of mankind, he hates his life and wants to end it. He wanted to commit suicide, remember? He wanted me to help. He's hardly happy. I don't want to be Nny. God, I wouldn't want to be Nny for anything._

_You'd rather just be a shell pretending to have some kind of meaningful existence._

_I don't want to be miserable._

_And yet you continue to be friends with Johnny. You said before it was because you wanted to help him. That's made you miserable so far, hasn't it?_

_Are you putting Johnny before yourself? Why is that?_

_I'm not-_

_You're putting his concerns before yours because his concerns are valid, they're real. They have to do with real emotions, real pure emotions that grip you, make you scream. His concerns are real. He's a real person. What are you? A figment flittering at the edge of vision, forgotten easily by everyone and by yourself._

_I'm not having this conversation. Why am I talking to myself like this?_

_Alright, let's change the topic. Does it bother you that much? That you doubt yourself this way?_

_...It's annoying when you won't shut up._

_It doesn't bother you to think that whatever opinions you have are worthless, does it? Does it bother you I can find the errors in everything you do?_

_Yes._

_That's too bad._

_...Where did you come from?_

_What?_

_Where did you come from?_

_I'm you, Edgar._

_...What are you?_

_A pessimist. But I'm so much more._

Edgar stared at the plastic action figure in his hands. He mouthed words silently to himself as he waged the mental battle.

_Who are you? _

_I think we already went over this._

_I...don't think you're...me anymore._

_Oh, that's very mature. You don't like being doubted and you don't like it when I'm right, so make me another person and then they're just wrong, and you're just right. Can't be right and wrong at once. There's no gray for you._

_I...I don't..._

_Maybe at some point you'll understand. I'm here to help you. That's what you made me for. To help you think. But I am you, you know. I'll always be a part of you._

_...Where are you?_

_It's hard to give myself a direct location. Your brain might work for now-_

_No...no, this isn't me. This isn't me. This can't be who I'm becoming. You can't be me._

_Denial, Edgar. Denial. You've been doing this a lot._

_No, you're not me. You're not me...I don't do this. I don't think like this. You're something else..._

_Feel any better now? Do you? You can keep saying it, but that doesn't make it true._

Edgar put Scriabin back beside his phone, raising his other hand to massage at his forehead. A headache was forming now that didn't help his concentration.

_Please help me...lord in heaven help me...I'm so confused... _

_There is no god, Edgar._

Edgar turned sharply and focused on the plastic figurine, who stood perpetually in the motion of moving out of the way, his arms unnaturally pushed down by his sides. Edgar lashed out, sending Scriabin flying across the room into the opposite wall with a fairly loud noise. Edgar watched him fall on the carpet with extremely mixed feelings, but the most predominant of which was anger.

"Don't say that." Words came from his mouth without thought as he stared at the toy on his floor.

There was silence. Nothing came in response to his words.

It only lasted for a few seconds before the phone began to ring.

Startled, Edgar's brief flash of anger faded to be replaced with surprise and confusion. He picked up the phone cautiously, still remembering their parting words with perfect clarity.

_I don't want to talk to you anymore._  
  
He _knew_ he was lying.

"Nny...?"

"Thank you."

_..._

For what?

"Um..."

"For the coat."

Edgar stood there for few minutes blinking before it came back to him. He hung his coat on a nail near the doorway...in his rush to leave he had forgotten to pick it up again.

_He thinks it's for him..._  
  
"...Um...that's okay...I'm...glad you like it."

_He's not going to believe me._  
  
"I thought maybe you forgot." The anger was gone now, replaced with quiet puzzlement. Johnny had not expected this. Understandable. "...with what happened at the mall...and everything."

"I know." Edgar ran a hand through his hair as a sudden stinging began beneath his eyes. Distracted by the current conversation, Edgar scratched absent-mindedly at the general area as he tried to phrase his words. "But...you did say you wanted a coat..."

"I...I didn't think...I don't know why...why you gave it to me. It's...long. It's...too long."

_Another hole in the story. Why is he falling for this?_  
  
"I...I don't understand, Edgar."

"That...that's okay. I said that I wanted to..." Edgar reviewed his original planned words and decided not to continue. Rephrase, reword, remove. "You said you kind of considered me your friend. I felt the same way, so...I thought maybe that coat would help make it...a reality for you."

_That was not my best choice of words._  
  
"A reality..."

A long pause.

Edgar, no longer having Scriabin to entertain him, just stared at the toy's new place on the floor. He found himself narrowing his eyes at it as if it was the source of his confusion. More stinging underneath his eyes. More idle scratching to get rid of the persistent itch.

Johnny's voice had almost a wondrous quality to it. "Something to hold on to..."

"Yeah..." That hadn't occurred to him. Johnny now had something of Edgar's, something physical and real. "I'm...I'm glad you like it."

"Something...to hold on to...something...that won't leave..." Johnny seemed to be talking to himself at this point.

_That's what he was having trouble with before..._

Edgar decided to wait until he felt comfortable interceding.

"Edgar..."

"Yes?"

"I...need to ask you something. Well...several things, actually. But...most importantly..."

A very long pause. Edgar felt as if he needed to say something and decided on the words he felt would be the most encouraging and least intimidating. "I'll try to help you if I can."

Another shorter pause, then a dark whisper across the plastic barrier. "Help me...yes..."

"What do you want me to do?"

"I...there's...I've been..." Awkward, half-started sentences. Edgar remembered these. "I was...the...I can't...I was wondering..."

"Yes?" Edgar leaned back against his headboard, wondering how long it would take Johnny to find his words or the courage required to give them voice. It was strange to think of someone who could kill so many could be...almost shy.

"I want to...to..." Edgar waited and the itching underneath his eyes grew in intensity. It was almost becoming more than an annoyance now. Before he could give it further thought, Johnny decided to continue. "I want to turn off..."

"Turn off...?" _Not suicide again, please...not suicide again, I can't-_  
  
"More...specifically...I want you to turn me off and...and fix me. I can't...do this alone anymore I'm...I'm...not...not sane."

Before Edgar could speak, Johnny cut him off, his words broken with pained and quick breaths. "I'm not sane and you know that. But...I'm not...I can't control my own...insanity so I wanted you to...let me...stay...with you. For a little while. Even only for a night. I want to turn everything off and...I want everything off. Everything off and quiet. I want...to...know why I'm...why I can't..."

"Nny, I..."

_Say no. Say _no.  
  
"Nny, I...if you really want to, I guess you can stay here for a while...I don't think anyone would mind, and it sounds like you...could really use the time."

_No. _

_Shut up. Just when I thought you left..._

"Are you sure?" The relief in Johnny's voice prompted a small smile for Edgar although he was not sure why. "I...I'm...dangerous. Last time I...but...I don't...have anyone else I could really talk to..."

"It's okay, don't..." He scratched underneath his eyes again, lazily glancing at his fingers as they moved back down.

They were covered in blood.

"Oh f- oh my god-"

"What?" Johnny almost sounded concerned, although his tone was on the whole curious. "What happened?"

"Um-" Edgar stared at his fingertips in disbelief. Blood caught undeneath his nails, across the pads of his fingers, thickening and turning brown in the air. Now that his body had finally succeeded in attracting his attention, he could clearly feel small beads running down his face. He opened his mouth twice before he was able to force quick words from it. "I can't talk right now, I have to take care of something, but feel free to come over any time you want, alright? I'll see you then."

Edgar hung up as he stared at his hand with a growing sense of alarm.

_How did this happen? Why didn't I feel this? Scratching never did this before, why couldn't I tell they reopened? I shouldn't be able to, why did they open now? I wasn't even scratching that hard, I thought they healed, I thought they wouldn't do this anymore, what's happening, what is happening...?_  
  
Edgar washed his face off in front of his bathroom mirror, the beginning streaks of blood leaving surprisingly stubborn stains. After he stopped bleeding and his face was relatively clean, he leaned in close to the mirror to stare at his reflection. He raised a hand to touch the now clean wounds.

_Why did that happen? Why did that happen?_  
  
He found himself mouthing the words as he stared at the reflection of his hands, his fingers hiding the grooves beneath his eyes.

_Why...?_  
  
The glass gave him no answers.


	9. Misplace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Thanks to Xel and LadyArtist for beta-ing this and future chapters.

_Does he know where I live?_

_Of course he knows where you live-_

_No, I mean...does he know which apartment is mine?_

_I'm assuming he would, considering he abducted you without trouble last time._

Edgar was alternately pacing in the front room of his apartment and sitting on the couch, too nervous to sit still and think rationally. He narrowed his eyes at his mind's sarcastic response and glanced back through the open door of his room. He had put Scriabin back near the phone, again feeling almost as if something was wrong if the toy was not in its appointed place.

_God, this is a terrible idea...this is a terrible idea. Why did I agree to this? Why did I let him talk me into this?_

_Oh right, that's exactly how it went. Johnny begged and begged and begged, but the cruel overlord Edgar refused his request! You love shifting blame, don't you? Johnny barely had to ask before you practically arranged a sleep-over. 'I'm not lonely', pff._

"You have a gift for exaggerating things until they're both pointless and stupid." Edgar mumbled underneath his breath after sitting down on the couch again. His hands raised to his face and automatically searched beneath his eyes. Not trusting the wounds, they were now covered with Band-Aids. Edgar felt he looked ridiculous with a bandage under each eye, but he preferred that to bleeding in the middle of a conversation.

"What am I going to do?" Now that his previous words had found audible voice, the rest of his concerns decided to follow suit. "God, I'm not prepared for this, I can't do- god, I'm not even exactly sure what it is he _wants_. How am I supposed to 'turn him off'?"

_You see, there's this little switch on the back of his neck-_

"Shut up."

The sudden knock on the door startled Edgar badly enough that he almost fell off the couch. He overcompensated in his recovery, his arms wheeling for a few moments as he veered from one extreme to the other. As if he was in front of anyone that could be embarassed. He brushed himself off as he tried to calm down, taking a deep breath and hoping that he wouldn't look like too much of a nervous wreck.

He opened the door with shaking hands. Johnny had been looking down the hallway with what seemed like bored curiosity, amusing himself until he was allowed entrance. When the door was fully open, Johnny turned around. As soon as Edgar met eyes with him, Johnny lowered his own to the floor, one hand grasping the other behind his back.

"Hello. Um..." His hand moved jerkily upwards, then fell again without a clear purpose. Johnny met Edgar's eyes several times, but each time held it for only a few seconds before looking away. "I'm...here."

Even Edgar was able to tell that was not what he intended to say, but he felt that the moment was awkward enough without bringing it up. He stepped back and out of the way.

"C'mon in."

Edgar shut the door, noticing that his previous energy had somehow dissipated. Something about Johnny's apologetic stance almost...calmed him down.

_That's...strange._

_It's a step down from homicidal, right?_

Johnny stood in the center of the room, holding onto his upper arms tightly as he looked upwards. He seemed very out of place, black and dark blue against an overwhelming sea of off-white and gray.

Silence.

Edgar was not sure what to say. Although this was his home and he should theoretically have an advantage in this situation, he still felt as awkward and physically vulnerable as always.

The apartment almost seemed to swallow up his words, thin and soft and almost confused.

"It's clean."

Johnny stood as close to the direct center of the room as possible. Edgar saw his hands shaking with the intensity of his grip, knuckles steadily turning white against white sleeves.

"Yeah..." Edgar stepped away from the door and made his way towards him slowly. "I have a lot of free time, so..."

Edgar paused for a moment, struggling to bring more mundane thoughts to mind regarding Johnny's presence.

"You...didn't bring a bag or anything."

"Oh." Johnny looked at him in surprise, as if this semi-question had reminded him of where he was. "I didn't think I'd need one. It's only a night. I'll be fine."

_All he would have is a change of clothes anyway, right?_

_Or maybe eight severed heads._

Johnny turned his head and surveyed the room carefully, almost as if looking for something.

"Um...if you want...I can show you around. There's not much to see really...although..."

_You've already seen it before, haven't you? You're looking for things that have changed._

"That's okay..." It was hard to hear his voice now as the white almost absorbed it, muffled it. "I'm..."

"Are you okay?" Edgar noticed the door to his room was open and decided to fix that. He looked over at Johnny who was currently staring at the carpet. "You're really...distant."

Johnny finally let go of one of his arms to place a trembling hand on his forehead. "Yeah...I've been thinking a lot..."

"...Can I ask what about?"

"It's...really complicated. Really...really complicated."

Edgar shrugged and smiled softly. "...We do have all night."

"Right..." Johnny looked away from him, a stray finger falling in front of now-closed eyes. "You're right." His thin shoulders rose and fell.

"I'm going to tell you a lot of things that aren't going to make any sense." Johnny's voice now fell into a familiar rhythm, the pattern indicating planned, conjoined thought. "I'm going to tell you this because you'll listen and you can't do anything to hurt me. You're like a wall. But not like the other wall." Johnny's last words came quickly and his eyes darted back and forth.

_He thinks you're a wall. He thinks you're a wall. Remind me again, why do you still talk to this person?_

"I've listened before, I can listen now. I'll try and understand if I can." Edgar sat down on the couch, wondering if Johnny would follow his lead. Johnny watched his progress without expression. After a short pause, he finally moved to one of the chairs away from Edgar. He sat down quickly, hunching his shoulders forward and gripping the seat cushion between his knees. His eyes remained fixed to the carpet.

"Alright...I don't know if you'll understand, but that's okay. You let me talk last time and that helped, even if you didn't..." Johnny narrowed his eyes. "That's gone now. But I have to speak now, or else I feel like I'll just..."

Johnny took a deep breath and held out his hands. "Starting over."

Edgar nodded.

"I...I mentioned reality falling apart for me. Now it's only getting worse. Worse and worse. I can't find any logical reasons behind my actions anymore. I feel like I'm becoming someone else. Like...I _am_ someone else. Other people know why they do things, why they would decapitate a person or otherwise maim people but now I don't know why. Everything is getting...complicated, like...I'm not sure why I'm doing anything anymore. Are you listening?"

Edgar nodded again, unaware of the thoughtful look on his face as he stared at Johnny. Johnny stared at him for a few moments, as if making sure that he would not interject or make some kind of suggestion about his narrative, then continued.

"I don't know why I'm killing people anymore. I don't know who I am. I...It's like I have no past. I just exist and I just exist to kill people, but that can't be right. You don't just burst into life without any explanation. I know that I had a past but I can't remember it. I was talking with someone and they said that a long time ago, I used to paint. I used to do things and I used to know why, but I still can't remember anything."

_Talking with who?_

"I feel like I'm losing control. Like...my actions have no meaning and I have no control over them. Like some kind of massively malfunctioning machine...that's what I meant before." Johnny pointed at Edgar. "About turning me off."

Edgar nodded. It all tied together. "I see your point."

"But...I'm also worried about my own..." Johnny paused and looked up, smiling in an unnatural and false way. "My own insanity." The smile quickly faded. "I know some of my voices are real, I can recognize them...they've been with me for a long time. But I feel like someone is using me...using my insanity for some kind of purpose I don't understand. The wall...someone is using me to paint that wall and I don't know why, I don't know why I let it do that. Fuck. I hate...not knowing like this. I hate not being in control. I hate being some broken thing raging against everything without really knowing why. I hate being...being _broken_."

Before Edgar could speak, Johnny cut him off, his voice rising. "I tried to remove myself from humanity but it keeps getting drawn to me, those stupid worthless people keep finding me, keep torturing me and I keep trying to get away, to try and live some kind of dysfunctional life at best but it keeps happening. Everyone out there is out to get me, out to make me miserable, and this is how that wall was able to get me, able to control me. It used those people, my hatred of those people to control me, and...and...!"

Johnny had ranged from furious and indignant to despairing and desperate throughout his story and ended up without anything. His voice broke with a mixture of several emotions and he clenched his fists tightly, glaring at Edgar as if this was somehow his fault.

"I tried so hard to get away and I got _nowhere_!"

Tears.

_He's crying again. You should do something about that._

"Nny..."

Johnny's angry look instantly vanished and was replaced with quiet astonishment. From his puzzled expression, he had again forgotten Edgar was there.

_That or he didn't expect your voice._

Johnny's next question seemed to be an invitation to join his rambling thoughts. "Do you ever wonder if the voices in your head are really yours?"

_Are really yours...?_

_Who are you?_

_I'm you._

Edgar shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. He would sort through all that later when he had the time. Now there was something more important to worry about.

"Listen...I know-...actually, that's not true. I _don't_ know. I really can't understand what you're going through. I've never...experienced something like that. But...I can understand why you feel the way you do...kind of."

Johnny stared at him as if Edgar speaking should not have been scientifically possible.

"I...I'm going to be honest, I'm not sure what to say. I don't know what words would make you feel better...if it means anything, I saw some of the paintings you did a long time ago. They were...really good." Edgar adjusted his glasses self-consciously. "If anything it means you have the capability to do great things...you just focused on...a strange field."

Johnny slowly tilted his head to one side and stared at Edgar with a strange intensity. Edgar felt himself beginning to shake involuntarily as Johnny stopped blinking.

"I wish I knew how to 'turn you off'...I'm not exactly sure what you mean. But if you have any suggestions...I'd be quite open to them. I really do want to help you if I can...I'll give it..."

Edgar trailed off, unable to focus with Johnny staring at him in such a fascinated way.

"Um...are you listening?"

"Where'd those bandages come from?"

Edgar sighed.

"The cuts under my eyes...opened again. I'm not really sure why-"

"Are you afraid of me?"

Edgar blinked at the sudden change in topic before he shrugged. "Right now?"

Johnny nodded.

Edgar adjusted his glasses again, running through his feelings before deciding to give what he hoped was an honest and helpful answer. "Not right _now_, exactly. I feel very nervous, but...not afraid."

"Really?" Johnny smiled at him in a strange way. "You're my friend, right?"

"Um...yes, but-"

"Do you trust me?"

The eagerness in Johnny's voice put him on edge. He felt another twinge of nervousness and caution guided his next words. "...Not quite yet. You _did_ try to kill me..."

Edgar was going to add a number, but found that he could not count each experience on the spur of the moment.

"Oh." Johnny sat back, sounding a little disappointed. "I was just curious."

"You've asked me that question a few times now." Edgar wondered if this was really the topic he should be pursuing, but decided to follow it anyway. "I mean...I'm not going to really trust you for a while...not unless you prove yourself to me somehow, though I don't know how...and besides, you're...you're insane. You said so yourself."

_I can't believe you're saying this. What's gotten into you?_

_I don't know..._

"Good point." Johnny smiled at him. "Now I'm hungry."

Edgar stared at him blankly until Johnny stood.

"What do you have?"

"Uh..." He struggled to regain his composure. Every time Johnny did something like this he was always caught off-guard. "You can look in the kitchen if you want...I haven't gone out shopping in a while though, so I'm not sure if...there's anything in...there that you would want..."

Edgar found his words trailing off as he watched Johnny move. The thin man originally walked briskly over to the kitchen but had slowed with each step, staring downwards at his boots more intently until he finally stopped altogether.

He froze in position, hands poised in midair. Edgar slowly walked closer to him, not trusting this sudden change in his behavior.

"Are you okay?"

"...It's quiet."

Edgar thought about this for a moment before deciding to move into the kitchen. This was partly so he could inspect what he had to eat himself, but partly because he hoped to get a better look at Johnny's expression.

Johnny waited until Edgar was in front of him before he slowly raised his head, staring at him with wide eyes. "It's...quiet. They're...gone."

"You mean...?" Edgar didn't know how to phrase his next words correctly, so gestured vaguely upwards instead. He immediately regretted doing so seconds afterwards, but of course he made neither emotion visible. Johnny stared at him with a mixture of fear and relief before reluctantly moving from his frozen state to join him in the tiled kitchen.

"It's...no one's talking to me anymore. Where...do you think...?" Johnny moved past Edgar swiftly, having apparently regained his focus, and began to rummage through the cupboards. "Do you think it was just the wall the whole time? I know the doughboys are the wall's now, it gives them power...do you think their influence only goes so far? I still don't hear anything. Why is that?"

Johnny seemed to be talking half to himself and half to Edgar. Edgar awkwardly watched as Johnny shifted boxes of crackers and other small food items out of the way in a deliberate manner.

"I couldn't say. Do you feel better now-" Edgar jumped as a box hit the floor with a loud noise. He stared at Johnny but he wasn't even paying attention to him, so he bent down and picked it up with a short sigh. He tried to remember what he had been saying. "Feel better now that nothing's...controlling you?"

"That's not it exactly." Johnny pulled a can out, stared at it, then dropped it carelessly. Edgar managed to catch it before it hit the counter with a tinge of irritation. Johnny continued his search uninterrupted. "I mean...I still want to kill people. It's just...it's very quiet."

_So the voices don't tell him to kill. Good, that would have been rather cliché._

_Since when was this a movie? Shut up._

Edgar caught a box of cookies as it left Johnny's hand, trying to keep his irritation out of his voice. Johnny did not take unreceptive or hostile audiences well. "So how is it different then?"

"Well..." Johnny smiled broadly as he finally found what he was looking for. "Ah! I knew it. I knew you had to have some. You seem like the kind of guy who would." Johnny put the can of pasta on the counter and began searching through drawers. "Everyone loves Skettios. I do."

"Nny..." Edgar began putting the misplaced items back in the cupboard as he tried to keep his patience. "How is it different?"

"Oh." Johnny's fingers glanced over the knives in the drawer before settling on a can-opener. "It's...well...it's complicated, like I said before. Whenever I felt something, I'd have all these voices giving me input about it. Telling me to be sad or happy or some emotion or reaction." Johnny seemed rather pleased at his find and his words were touched with an out-of-place carelessness. "Now they aren't there. It's very quiet. It's kind of scary."

"Oh." Edgar closed the cupboard and turned to face Johnny again, who had pulled the lid of the can off and was now searching for bowls. Edgar, not wanting to risk any more dishevelment of his kitchen, decided to help and handed him one. Johnny took it without any recognition of Edgar's involvement in the bowl's acquisition whatsoever. "...Are you okay?"

"Okay?" Johnny pressed buttons on the front of the microwave distractedly. "I'm never okay. But this is different. Very different. That can be a good thing sometimes."

"Alright...um..." Edgar moved to stand near him, although still a good distance away. Johnny stood, crossed his arms, and stared at the numbers on the display of the microwave with surprising focus. This level of concentration on Johnny's part seemed almost...worrisome. "Do you feel any better then?"

"I don't know." Johnny shrugged, although his eyes did not move. "I'm getting Skettios, so I guess that makes me happy. You ask a lot of questions."

"I know." Edgar felt another tinge of nervousness at the change in Johnny's tone, but with the level of concentration Johnny had invested in the microwave, he doubted that even such a potentially deadly statement could lead to an attack. "I mean...look. I'm not...a wall. I can't just be here and be silent. I can listen but...I can talk too. That's what a conversation is, really."

_Yes, you certainly can't talk to yourself, can you?_

_Shut up._

Johnny twitched although he still did not move his eyes. "It just...it's not quiet, then. You're another voice."

"I don't want you to kill people though."

_Jesus, what are you doing? Are you trying to provoke him?_

Johnny twitched again and his fingers clenched the fabric of his shirt. Edgar quickly tried to recover, hoping that he hadn't made some grievous mistake.

"I mean...that didn't come out right. What I meant is that I don't want to control you or anything. If anything, I really kind of want you to be happy. It's...it's..."

_Do NOT finish that sentence._

"Happy. I'm not happy." Johnny's voice was dark and low. Edgar stuck his hands in his pockets to hide their shaking. He faked a sigh to hide his fear.

"I know...out of curiosity...what _does_ make you happy?"

Johnny blinked and was silent. One of the long pauses that were so common again found its place and Edgar stood awkwardly, watching Johnny's expression. It was frighteningly blank.

Beeping thankfully broke the silence and Johnny quickly took out the bowl. He turned and stared at him, his face still without expression. Edgar again felt nervous, felt the urge to back away, to get distance, to get away from danger. Johnny stared at him for a few seconds, then turned his attention down to the bowl in his hand. He licked one of his fingers that had strayed into the bowl's contents, then began to look for a fork.

"...There isn't much."

Edgar watched Johnny walk back into the living room after he found one, now ignoring him entirely. He followed him shortly afterwards with his hands still in his pockets, rubbing his fingers together in an effort to do something with all this nervous energy.

"I'm sorry if that was...I don't want to make you angry or anything. I'm just curious. You talk a lot about what you hate, but not so much about what you don't."

Johnny looked up at him from his vantage point on the couch. His voice was again, strangely monotone. "There isn't much. That's why."

"But there's something, right?"

_Why are you still pursuing this? Are you going to get him what he wants? Go out on a nice picnic? Kill some picnickers? Where are you going with this?_

"What are you thinking about?"

Edgar jerked at Johnny's sudden question, finding the frighteningly distant look transformed to misplaced curiosity. Another unpredictable mood swing.

"I'm just thinking to myself."

"I do that...that's all I do sometimes." Johnny paused as he chewed, then smiled brightly. "Well, other than kill people of course."

"Right." Edgar looked away, not sure of how else to respond. "That's...how it works sometimes."

_That made no sense._

_What was I supposed to say?_

"You don't have a cat."

_Again, the train of thought derails and kills someone._

"Um...no." Edgar blinked at Johnny who stared at him as if he had made a perfectly normal observation. "No, I don't."

"That's odd." Johnny shrugged and returned to eating. "You seem like a cat person to me."

"Really?" Edgar had never thought about getting a pet.

_That would make you need a friend, wouldn't it? It'd be admitting you're lonely. And god, Edgar Vargas can't have that! No no no-_

_Shut UP!_

"Yeah. This place is empty. It's very empty."

Edgar found himself thinking about Johnny's words probably more than the man himself had.

"You just seem like someone who would have a cat. A cat and a lot of books."

"Well, I do have books-"

"Not a lot of them though." Johnny paused, stared upwards for a moment, then again shrugged. "It looks like you'd get lonely here."

Edgar stared at Johnny in stunned silence.

_Lonely...?_

_Johnny thinks I'm lonely?_

_Johnny thinks I'm lonely?_

_Well well, it looks like I'm not the only one. How many people have to say that before you realize it's true?_

"I-I'm, I'm not lonely." Edgar stumbled over his words, something he was not too familiar with. Johnny looked at him quizzically. "I spend a lot of time by, by myself, but I'm not...I'm not lonely."

"I get lonely." Johnny's eyes fixed on his near-empty bowl. His voice was very soft. "Angry. I get lonely and angry."

"What do you do?"

_As if you didn't know. What kind of question is that?_

Johnny gave him a look as if the question was one of the easiest to answer in the entire world. "I try to kill myself of course. I'm lonely because everyone in this entire world is...I thought maybe I could find someone better over..." Johnny trailed off, his eyes dropping again back down to his bowl. "I could...find people I wouldn't hate."

"What stopped you?"

_What on EARTH are you DOING? Poke a knife in Edgar, he's stupid!_

Johnny had to think about this for a few seconds, then he replied in a calm and reasonable voice. "This commercial I really liked came on."

Edgar could not think of a response.

Johnny again seemed oblivious to Edgar's constant bafflement at his behavior. For the entirety of the silence that followed his statement he kept eye contact with Edgar, his expression unchanging. Waiting for him to say something.

The silence pressed on Edgar's nerves with increasing insistence and he could not stay quiet any longer. He broke eye contact along with the silence, raising one hand to gesture as if it could give his words the meaning that he wasn't sure would come across.

"I...I see."

Johnny smiled at his hesitant words.

"No you don't."

The look of surprise crossed Edgar's face again in only so many minutes, but finally he smiled in return. "I don't."

Johnny nodded as if he had won an argument, then turned towards Edgar's television. He looked at the blank screen for a few seconds before turning to Edgar with a questioning stare.

Edgar picked up the remote and pointed it at the television, but before he pressed the appropriate button, a question that had been bothering him unexpectedly came forth.

"You don't hate _me_, do you?"

In the silence that followed, Edgar turned slowly and found that Johnny's face frozen in an expression of utter and total disbelief. When he finally spoke, he sounded both confused and almost offended.

"No. No, I don't hate you."

Edgar turned on the television. Immediately, Johnny moved to the couch in front of it, his hand held out for the remote. Edgar gave it to him silently.

_What does that mean?_

_What?_

_He said he tried to kill himself because he wanted to find something better. He wanted someone he didn't hate and now he has one._

_What's he going to do with you, I wonder._

* * *


	10. Empty

Johnny had no intention of sleeping--particularly after what had happened last time he had given in to it--but Edgar had no reason to follow his example. When the time began to venture into single digits, Edgar yawned, announced he was going to bed, and awaited a response.

Johnny had not said a word to Edgar after he figured out how to work the remote control.

He at least expected a good night but was not surprised when it did not come. He shut the door behind him as he went into his room, turned off the lights, and went to bed.

* * *

He was not sure how much time had passed before something woke him; a slight rustling and a change in the mattress's position. He was unfamiliar to such sensations, sensitive to them.

He rubbed at his eyes and tried to focus in the darkness on what could have caused such a disturbance. The window that he usually kept hidden behind curtains was now open. The night outside was still and quiet, so the noise had not come from there.

However, a great deal of moonlight had found its way through the window and gave his room more illumination than he would have expected. He still could not see anything specific, only dark blotches that could have been anything.

"You asked me..." The whispered voice shocked him for a few seconds before Edgar remembered who was in his house. He turned in the general direction of the voice but could not make out its exact source. He fumbled for his glasses as the whisper continued, an almost singsong tone entering into it. "You asked me if there was anything that made me happy."

"Yeah..." Edgar's voice was still thick from sleep. He guessed that maybe Johnny was standing near the window...there was a dark spot there.

"The moon..." Soft, almost plaintive words. "The moon does...make me happy. The moon and the stars...look at it..."

Edgar's questing fingers finally felt the edges of his glasses and hesitated. Would they really help in this situation? He doubted Johnny was going to turn on the light. He left them where they were.

"It is...it's rather pretty sometimes."

"It's..." A dark spot against the soft light moved towards him, causing him to jump slightly. Johnny had been sitting near the foot of his bed, although still in view of the window. "I can't explain it really..."

"You can try..." Edgar sat up fully and ran a hand through his hair unconsciously, watching the dark spot's motion. Now that he had identified it, he could recognize the colors of Johnny's clothes and skin, although they blended in with his surroundings now. "I'll listen."

"You'll listen..." Johnny sighed and stood, moving along the side of the bed slowly until he stood next to where Edgar was sitting. He sat down near him slowly, hesitantly. Edgar could make out his head, his hands, but not his face. "You listen to me."

"Yes..."

A long silence followed. Edgar toyed with the edge of his sheets as he waited for Johnny to formulate his thoughts.

_I wonder what he wants to say..._

_Are you there...?_

"I want to tell you something." Johnny had his back to him. Edgar was fairly sure of it now. "It's important."

"I'm listening."

More movement. Now Johnny faced him, his hands pushing down on the sheets so he could feel the fabric being pulled across his legs. Despite the change in position, Edgar still could not see his face. Maybe he should have put on his glasses after all...

"I'm going to kill you, Edgar."

Against all rational thought, Edgar's first reaction to this news was a deep sigh.

"I can't...I can't say...I'm really...surprised." Edgar looked at Johnny, amazed at his own apathy.

_If I'm going to die, I have nothing to lose._

"Why?" Edgar waited for only a few seconds before speaking again. "And...when...?"

"It's not a bad thing." Johnny pulled his legs onto the bed, now sitting crosslegged near him. His voice was again frighteningly carefree. "I know it's hard for you to understand that, but it's not supposed to be a bad thing. I like you, you know."

"Why do you want to kill me then? If you like me..." Edgar took a short breath. "Wouldn't you want to...keep me around?"

"Oh..." His eyes were acclimating to the dark, and Edgar could see Johnny look down towards the bedspread, his hands toying with one another. "It's...I don't want..."

"If you really like me...why would you want to kill me?" Edgar rested his arms on his raised knees.

"Everyone I know...it's...I think of it like...corruption...no..." He could make out Johnny running a hand through his hair. "Everything...ends. It all ends so badly. So empty. Good-byes and farewells and you're left with nothing but bad memories. Memories of fights and arguments and sad times...they make everything so dark and murky. So...unpleasant."

Edgar waited, not sure of where this was going. Johnny raised a hand towards him, but pulled it back quickly.

"I don't want terrible memories...bad times and hurt feelings. I want it to be perfect...I want something to be perfect and clear and always wonderful...a beautiful moment frozen in time forever...I never have to say good-bye, they'd never leave at all...do you see what I'm getting at?"

"But, Nny...if you do...cut something off like that, you're...limiting the amount of happiness that you could have. Sometimes things do end badly, but there can be so many opportunities for good times through an _entire_ relationship-"

"No!" He felt the sheet pulled sharply across his legs as Johnny's fists clenched the fabric. "No, dammit, you don't understand!"

"Nny-"

"Don't you see? Can't you see at all? I'm doing this-, I want-, I don't want ugly memories, I don't want people changing and hating, I don't want people to hate me, I don't want to hate you and I don't want you to hate me so I have to stop everything, freeze everything at that moment so that can never happen! I want this to be _perfect_...I want this to be something I can remember forever, something that never got broken and infected and decayed...I want...I want this to be forever...one thing in my life...to be forever..."

His hands released the sheets to take hold of his hair and then he was a miserable ball curled on Edgar's sheets, rocking slightly back and forth.

_I can't...he doesn't...? I don't believe this...I had..._

"You...you don't want me to hate you...?"

"God no...no no no _no_..."

"Nny...I wouldn't...hate you. I don't hate you now."

"No!" Johnny stopped rocking, the force of his sudden violent exclamation almost shaking his thin frame. Edgar watched Johnny's hands tremble as false fury was forced into his words and actions, thin and transparent. "No, you don't understand, this isn't _about_ now, it's about the future! It's about what always happens! This always happens! I'm going to _break_ you because I can't function properly myself!"

"I don't know...if you'll believe me when I say this." Edgar struggled to find words, hoping that Johnny wouldn't make good on his threat so soon. "You've tried to kill me...a lot of times now...you've frightened me and confused me...but that doesn't really matter."

_This is such a feel-good moment. I feel all fuzzy inside, don't you?_

_I was wondering where you went off to._

Taking Johnny's lack of speech as an indication to continue, Edgar raised one hand towards him slowly. The hesitance in the motion and the jerkiness of his reactions, his hands tendency to retreat quickly at Johnny's slightest movement, revealed that his tone did not match his current mood. "Think of how this all began. Time only made everything...better, don't you think? You're here and I'm here...it's a beautiful night, the moon is out...time made this happen. Time could make more things happen-"

"No, I don't want more. I want this. I want _now_. I want..."

Edgar sighed and turned his attention to his sheets. He let his raised hand rest against his head, tangling his fingers as best he could in his short hair. "Listen...even if you _are_ going to kill me...I...know it's because you...cared about me in some way. I...understand."

"I can't...no. This is going all wrong..." Johnny's hands matched Edgar's, finding a familiar place in his hair. "This isn't how it's supposed to be. I'm not supposed to..."

"You could think of it...think of it this way. You wanted to kill yourself before because you never found someone worth living for."

_That was surprisingly eloquent._

"You're still alive now, for one reason or another, and...here I am."

_You DO know what you just insinuated, right?_

He could feel Johnny's eyes boring into him. Edgar struggled to keep his arm still as he held out his hand.

"You could have a perfect moment frozen like this...but you could miss an even better one later on."

_Edgar the fortune cookie._

_Shh._

Johnny's questioning eyes drove into him and the man's arms moved downwards, his hands held out in a confused and pleading way.

"What are you trying to do to me?"

"I'm not...I'm not trying to do anything. Here..." Edgar took a deep breath then reached out for one of Johnny's hands. He hoped that with the speed and force that he used that his shaking would not be noticed. The skeletal fingers wrapped around his own automatically.

"See...if you killed me before...this never would have happened."

Johnny was silent for a few moments, then he pulled his fingers free from Edgar's grip, his arm settling back protectively against his thin body. Hoping to read some kind of reaction, Edgar was disappointed. Johnny remained impassive throughout each nerve-wracking second of suddenly loud heartbeats and inhalations. The silence now felt more oppressive than ever.

Slowly, Edgar saw fingers coming through the darkness at him. They touched the skin beneath his eyes, caught the edge of a bandage with one nail.

"I don't understand you." Johnny's voice was unreadable. "I told you...right now I just told you that at some point in our _relationship_, I plan on _killing_ you, and you're still here."

A tug at the plastic and a tug at his skin in response. Edgar winced slightly but did not move. Johnny edged even closer and now his facial features were in range to be read. Confusion and determination.

"Listen to me now, Edgar Vargas." Johnny hissed. A sharper tug on the bandage raised more of its glue from his skin painfully and Edgar could not suppress a shudder. "_Listen to me_. I am going to _hurt_ you. And when the time comes, I am going to _kill_ you."

"I know-"

"Then tell me why. Why aren't you running out of this room, fighting me, making me stop like any normal person? Why don't you _fight_ me, Edgar?" Johnny punctuated his menacing words with more tugs on the bandage, causing more sharp sparks of pain. Edgar winced but still did not move away.

"While we're asking questions..." Edgar hissed through his teeth. "Why do you want to hurt me at all?"

The nail against his skin left as Johnny withdrew his hand, staring at Edgar with a strange sense of calm rather than the indignant rage he had expected. Edgar returned his gaze as coolly as he could manage.

Johnny finally broke contact to move his eyes back down to the sheets. Edgar almost could not hear his next despondently slow words.

"It's what I do."

_I'm going to die anyway. I'm going to give it a try._

"If there's anything I'm trying to do...it's...trying to make things easier for you." Edgar rubbed at the bandage on his face, pushing the adhesive back against his skin. He searched for Johnny's eyes as he spoke, but he kept them downcast, focusing on his hands with familiar intensity. "I saw something...a while ago. While you were watching that movie. I saw something that...wasn't broken. I know that somewhere...there's a piece of you that works."

After saying this, Edgar took another deep breath and held it for a few seconds, hoping it would give him the courage that he needed. Slowly and hesitantly, he reached out his hands and placed them on Johnny's thin shoulders. The bones poked into the palms of his hands, his shoulder blades lingering at his fingertips. At the contact, Johnny's head snapped upwards and he stared at him with with a mixture of confusion and mistrust.

"What are you doing?"

"I..." Edgar lifted his hands immediately at the sudden movement, his heart jumping at Johnny's words. Only a few seconds passed before he let them fall back into place as a smile crossed his face. "I'm not going to hurt you."

"I know that." Johnny glared at him. "I-I don't like to be touched." He seemed thankful for this change in subject and latched onto the new topic quickly. "It's empty."

"Empty?"

"Yes, empty. Every touch, every person's skin and nerves grating against my own, it's all meaningless. Everything is for a cheap thrill, for the moment, for personal gratification and another mark on a meaningless tally, and moving on. It's all empty, animal urges that never got fully erased, lusts and desires we mask with more complicated titles. It's all so disgusting, all so...empty. Nothing is as real as anyone says, every touch just takes more of me away, absorbing and taking."

In the midst of a speech that sounded almost as if it had been rehearsed, Johnny's hands flashed out with characteristic speed and accuracy. The thin fingers wrapped tightly around Edgar's wrist and pulled his hand upwards, palm facing the blue-haired man. Johnny stared at Edgar, his voice almost crazed with a strangely desperate passion.

"Look at this, _look_ at this! Flesh and sinew all melded together into such an imperfect machine! A void where there ought to be meaning. Where there should be something, _anything_, there is _nothing_."

Johnny took his free hand and pressed it against Edgar's, fingers matching his own as a mirror image. The skeletal tips pushed into his skin and Edgar felt the hairs on his arms rise.

"It's..." Johnny paused, taking a deep breath. "God, it's so base and...so pointless. Meaningless animalistic attraction without any kind of redeeming value...I can feel it...I can feel you pulling at me as I speak. Your touch just taking from me...you're empty...you're so empty..."

_Is he trying to convince me or himself...?_

_You know, most people wouldn't stand for being called a meaninglessly empty animalistic...animal. You should do something about that._

"Nny-"

Johnny continued as if Edgar hadn't spoken but had somehow prompted him to continue at the same time. "I don't like to be touched. I don't want to be touched because-"

"Nny, listen to me." Edgar's surprisingly stern tone startled Johnny into silence. His claw-like fingers still dug into the skin of his wrist and he could feel Johnny's cool skin against his own. "I'm not empty." Edgar raised his free hand before Johnny could speak. "Listen to me for once. I am _not_ empty."

Edgar moved his trapped fingers, sliding along the edges of Johnny's until they held tightly onto the thin, cold palm. "Look at this. You can feel this. You can _feel_ this. I don't want anything you're talking about. I don't want gratification. I don't want anything from you at all. You're not here because I wanted your company. You're not sitting on this bed talking to me because that's what I wanted to do with my life."

"Don't-"

He could feel Nny's fingers beginning to slide from his wrist. "You're in control of this, Nny. You're even in control of _me_, to some extent. I don't want to take anything from you. I don't want to _take_ anything. I'm not trying to fill a void in my life, I'm not some black hole trying to tempt you to the dark side."

_Mixing your metaphors there._

_Not now._

"I'm not trying to use you. I am not empty and I am not a wall, Johnny. I'm here _for_ you, but I'm still _here_."

_Didn't know you had it in you, Edgar. You really told him off._

In the silence that followed, Edgar was not sure what to do. One hand now rested harmlessly against the sheets, but his other was still in the air, still holding onto Johnny's palm.

Slowly Johnny lowered his fingers, tips scraping between his knuckles, and his wrist was released. They sat there with their hands intertwined, neither of them sure how to break the silence.

_I wish I had a camera. This would make a great picture._

_You never quit, do you?_

"I want to fix you."

Edgar hoped that maybe his words would prompt some kind of response from the taciturn man but he still sat quietly, his eyes fixated on his one hand.

Almost two minutes passed.

"I want to kill you right now." A very soft, vulnerable whisper. "I want you dead."

Edgar smiled in a sad way.

"Thanks."

Silence.

Edgar could feel Johnny's skin warm up with his consistent close contact as he struggled to find something to focus on. While Johnny no doubt was thinking deeply about what Edgar had said, Edgar could only think of how awkward this pause was.

_So many pauses in your conversations and you're still not used to them?_

Johnny didn't say anything, only alternately looking from his trapped hand to his trapped victim with varying emotion. Edgar tried to maintain eye contact, but his own eyes followed Johnny's to their matched hands more often than not.

A faint light began to shine outside the window. It grew with steady intensity as a car drove by on the street, engine breaking the fragile quiet that held them together. It faded away without either of them looking away or speaking.

_What do I do now?_

_God, you're so bad at this. Think Edgar! You like to read. You go out and see movies occasionally. Now, think carefully about this -- what would they do in this situation? Say, our hero has been confronted with a weeping or emotionally confused friend. He restates his friendship and intention to remain committed to said friendship. And what happens after that?_

_...Um..._

_Well, they don't just hold hands. More often than not, if your faulty brain would like to recall, they tend to hug. Men, woman, and children. All hug._

_Are you saying I should hug him? Are you insane?_

_Coming from the man who just held his hand and told the serial killer not to toy with him?_

_I'm not going to hug him, he told me before, I'm not going to do something-_

_Look at Edgar, a regular flimsy excuse factory. Pump out another one. C'mon, it's not a big deal. Give him a quick, manly hug._

_A manly hug._

_Hey, you're the one holding hands with some guy in the dark in the middle of the night._

Edgar sat and watched Johnny's expression, hoping that it would give him some indication as to what to do. Johnny at the moment was not staring at Edgar or his trapped hand, his eyes instead fixed on the bedspread once again as if he expected _it_ to break the silence.

_Maybe I shouldn't interrupt him._

Johnny looked up as he noticed Edgar's inquisitive look and his expression softened into one of bewildered puzzlement.

_It's amusing how both of you have NO idea how the other one thinks. Now hug him you twit._

Edgar coughed slightly, one of the first noises to come from either of them since he had taken hold of him. He gently pulled Johnny's hand toward him and found that the skeletal man did not resist, his only reaction a curious stare. As Edgar raised his other hand, Johnny mimicked him, the expression on his face dispelling any doubt that this was accidental.

_See, he wants to hug you too._

_God, what do you have to gain from this?_

_A hug. Paranoid much?_

Johnny's right arm settled across his shoulders, touching his neck briefly before sliding downwards. He suppressed a shudder at the lack of flesh on the man's bones, the chilling feeling of unnatural and unhealthy thinness. Edgar untangled his fingers from Johnny's so as to complete the hug and Johnny followed suit, awkwardly and hesitantly. A second skeletal arm to join the first. He could feel the ribs through Johnny's back and trace his fingers across his spine. Edgar's hands stumbled for a moment over his protruding shoulder blades before settling down just beneath them.

This disturbed Edgar a great deal. He had seen pictures, heard stories, and had been warned against the consequences of an insufficient diet. Yet here he was actually holding an illustration in his arms. It felt unnatural and strange.

_You know what your first reaction to this is? What you want to do? You tried to hide it pretty quickly, but I know what it was. You wanted to feed him. You want to fix the psychopath and make him all healthy. That's so cute, Edgar. Seriously. You should go out to dinner, make a regular date out of it._

_...tell me to hug him, then make fun of me for it. What do you want?_

_Oh, come now. I didn't poke fun at you hugging him. I poked fun at the fact that our dear delightful martyr Edgar wants to feed the starving man-child that's killed hundreds. Oh, and by the way, I can feel it in you now. How long has it been?_

_Don't start this again-_

_How long has it been since you hugged someone, Edgar? Since you were a little kid? You don't have any relatives now. You don't have anyone to hug except what basically could be equated to a shotgun blast to the head. Edgar's last embrace of cold hard steel. So magnificently self-destructive! Where did this come from?_

_Don't-_

_Don't what, Edgar? You've proclaimed so many times that you're not lonely and here you are! Look at it! You've made that into such a mantra that you've managed to find a loophole in it in order to keep a relationship with Johnny! You say you don't need people and here you have the worst one imaginable! You've raised the bar for hypocrisy, Edgar! It's amazing!_

_I'm doing this-_

_Oh, I'm doing this for him. Always the same story. It's for Johnny, it's to help someone, blah blah blah. Everything you do is for you, Edgar. Not other people. Everything you do is inherently selfish. That's how human behavior works. There's no altruism anymore. You know how I know this? You're hugging that maniac and guess what? You're shaking. Why is that? Your heart-rate's jumped up quite a bit as well...it's not fear. That has a different effect. What is this? Do you enjoy this? Is this what you wanted out of life?_

_I'm not-_

_Well here you go, Edgar! You wanted someone, well, here he is! He's right here! And you're so happy about it you can't even register it consciously. And look, your little friend is shaking too, although I bet it's for more practical reasons. I'm assuming he's cold._

_I should wrap the blanket around us then..._

_And you change topics once again. I guess we'll discuss this later._

Before Edgar could make a move Johnny pulled away from him violently, visibly shaking. He stared at Edgar with wide, frightened eyes. Johnny backed away from Edgar so quickly that he stumbled, hands and feet tangling in loose sheets. Edgar sat still, not wanting to do anything to provoke him further.

"You...you're lying."

Edgar could not help a quick, soft reply. "What?"

"You've been lying to me..." Johnny did not seem angry or intent on his bodily harm, instead backing away from him as if fearing an attack. His thin hands splayed across the sheets, crumpling and shifting as he moved backwards. He stared at Edgar in terror, although the scarred man could not comprehend what on earth he was afraid of. "You've...that's not right."

"What was I lying about?" Edgar kept his voice calm and level, hoping that the conversation hadn't descended into irretrievable territory. Johnny lowered his head, hands darting up to push against the sides of it as if to keep something inside. He closed his eyes tightly, hissing words as he shook his head back and forth.

"No no no...this isn't...it's not..."

"Nny-"

"You're lying." Johnny let go of his head and met Edgar's stare calmly, his composure regained. Edgar was slightly taken aback at the sudden change in mood. "You're lying to me about everything."

"Do you have any specifics...?" Edgar tried to sound non-threatening. Johnny pointed at him accusingly.

"You said that you wanted to help me. That you _liked_ me. But what about what I _do_, Edgar? You saw me tear people apart. You told me originally that I was going to _Hell_. What happened to that? Do you think it's okay that I kill people, Edgar?" Johnny's voice had a frighteningly panicky tone in it, desperate in some strange way. Edgar paused, formulating what he hoped would be a neutral response. Where on earth had this attack come from...?

"Nny, it is possible to like a person without liking what they do-"

"No!" Johnny finally leapt off the bed, landing on the floor in near silence without ever taking his eyes off him. He trembled violently, his entire body shaking with surprising intensity. One fist clenched tightly at his side as he continued to point at Edgar. "No no _no_! You don't understand! You don't understand _anything_!"

Johnny's last word was agonized and his hands returned to his head, grasping, nails sinking into his skin. Edgar shifted forward slowly, hoping not to attract undue attention to his movement.

"Don't you get it? Don't you see?" Johnny watched him closely, although Edgar was sure at this point that Johnny was beyond caring about whether or not Edgar was moving. "I told you before, I can't remember anything anymore. Everything's becoming blurry and ruined and I can't remember who I am or who I used to be. The only thing that defines me as _me_ anymore is _killing other people_!"

"Nny, that's not true, that doesn't make you who you are. Your character and your actions are two different things, and it's possible for me to like one over the other-"

"_No_!" Johnny shrieked at him with sudden, vicious energy. "Don't you get it! Don't you understand? _That's all I have left!_"

Johnny stalked out of the room furiously, slamming the door on his way out. Edgar stared at it for a few moments as he tried to organize his scattered thoughts.

_Maybe hugging him wasn't such a good idea._


	11. Books

"Shut up..." Nny stumbled down the instinctive path to his house, his voice a keening whine in his throat. God everything was going wrong, going so wrong all over again and it was his fault, again...

_I knew it all along. There is no happiness for you, Johnny boy. There never will be. _ Their voices got louder and more distinct as he got closer to the house, the only place he felt truly attached to, albeit not in a good way. Yet in that sense you know, without any kind of doubt that you will die there. You began there, lived through it all, and eventually the thing that spawned you will claim you again. That was what his house was. A tether holding him to reality, pulling itself over a beam tighter and tighter and he was on his toes, hands grasping at the rope around his neck...

"I'm not going to..." Johnny was sure that people were staring, laughing, and pointing at him as he walked down the street arguing with himself, but he was too confused to find the motivation or ability to kill a few of them. "I'm...I'm ruining..."

_I told you before that the only solace lies in death, Johnny, and I was right. Since it seems that your friend Edgar's out of the question, that only leaves one more candidate for happiness. Aren't you sick of all this human drama, Nny? Sick of the games that you've been playing in an effort to win? I told you you couldn't win, Johnny. _

_Wait a minute, Johnny. I'm afraid I have to disagree with my friend here as usual. You may think you've ruined things, but in reality you've done no such thing. _

"What the_ fuck_ are you talking about!" Johnny lashed his arm out to one side, knocking over a woman who had been following him a little too closely. He didn't even notice her. "He fucking _hates_ me! He _has_ to hate me!"

_Why is that, Johnny? If you can't understand yourself, I at least can. You did that on purpose, didn't you? Yelling at Edgar and leaving his house in the perfect example of a hissy fit. That was done purposely. _ "_Not_ helping!" Johnny, without paying a great deal of attention, pushed someone who lingered too long in front of him out of the way. Normally, after he had dragged the staring interloper back to his house, he would have explained to that person why he felt their forthcoming extermination necessary, but at the moment all he could feel or respond to was simple, unencumbered violence. "You're _not_ helping, Eff!"

_You wanted perfection, Johnny, remember? You wanted to have a perfect relationship. And a few minutes ago that was exactly what you had. _

Johnny threw open the door to his house, watching the doorknob slam into the weakened plaster. It left a roundish hole. "And then I-"

_You did this on purpose. You don't want to kill him, so you're prolonging the path to perfection- _

"Fah!" The Styrofoam creature had found physical voice now that Johnny was present to see and hear him. It ventured forward towards Johnny who had collapsed on the couch. "You're so desperate, Eff, it's sickening."

"Desperate? Me?" His counterpart joined Psycho-Doughboy near Johnny's form. "You're the one who's desperate. We're so close and you can't wait a few measly days..."

"I'm not going to wait and I don't _want_ to wait. _You_ want this, not me. I'm tired of baby-sitting this emotional train-wreck of a person and yes, I'm talking about you." D-boy glared as Johnny looked up at him. Johnny didn't even emotionally react, only letting his face rest again on his arms. "It's disgusting and degrading and the sooner it's over with the better. Isn't that right, Johnny-boy?"

"Why can't I be normal...?" Johnny's voice was strained and tight, his hands moving to clutch at the back of his neck, leaving red lines from where his short nails dug into skin. His entire body clenched and his muscles trembled as Johnny struggled to find some way, something, or somewhere he could vent his frustration. "Why does this always happen to me...?"

"You do it to yourself, Johnny." Mr. Eff's tone originally was admonishing but was altered halfway through into something resembling comforting. D-Boy made a scoffing noise at his other half.

"Johnny, I've told you before and you never listen. You always back away with some ridiculous nonsense about how you're invincible, about how you can't die. Well, prove me wrong now, Johnny. You've got nothing left to live for anyway. Everyone hates you, even yourself. If you're really reaching for examples, even me."

"Johnny, I know this is a rather emotional period for you, but don't do anything stupid. I'm very close to what I want and so are you." Mr. Eff's words were short and somewhat admonishing. "Don't let D fool you. There are things waiting for you if you don't kill yourself. There are _great_ things. Why don't you call Edgar? I'm sure he's waiting for you. I bet he completely understands."

It was obvious that Mr. Eff was lying. Johnny at this point did not care, tearing at the back of his neck viciously as his mental battle raged in physical form. The pain wasn't able to block them, wasn't able to silence them, and Johnny's thoughts could not even make coherent sentences. A rambling series of words that slipped away before he could grab them in his desperate attempt to express himself somehow.

"You're confused, Johnny. Why don't you go get something to eat? I bet a Brain Freezy would cheer you up immensely." Mr. Eff ventured to put a hand on Johnny's back. "Get your mind off this and onto better things. You could go visit the high school and kill one of those annoying kids who laughed- laugh at you. Get some blood on your hands, Nny. It does a body good."

"Always with the distractions, Eff!" Mr. Eff withdrew his hand and stared at D-boy, who was gesturing towards the sky. "Meaningless distractions! A minor release, a little happiness and then what? That descent into darker feelings! Speed bumps on an inevitable journey to absolute misery. Are you listening?" D-Boy looked at Johnny for a response, but the blue-haired man was still mumbling into the couch cushion and clawing at himself.

"Kill yourself, Johnny. End this vile ride. End it all and finally find some peace. That's what you've wanted all along and that's what you wanted from Edgar. You're not going to get it any other way."

"Just be quiet...just shut up..." The couch cushion muffled choked, ragged words as Johnny curled into a fetal position. D-boy did not hide his distaste.

"You can't hide anymore, Johnny. You make me sick. Always so close, always inches away and something in you turns back. I'm sick of your cowardice."

"Johnny, you know me. I'm your friend." Mr. Eff quickly took advantage of his partner's hostility. "I want the best for you. Go out and have some fun. Go out and smile again. For me. Go outside for me."

Upset at Mr. Eff upstaging him, D-boy quickly changed tack. "Don't listen to him. He's lying. Can you _deny_ anything I'm saying, Nny? Can you? You can't. This world hates you. There's a better world waiting for you in death. Why do you hesitate? Go there, Johnny. You can trust me. You've always trusted me, always came back to me." D-Boy smirked at Mr. Eff's malevolent glare in his direction at this comment. "You know me and I know you, and I can say this for certain: you have _nothing_ to live for. There's nothing for you here now. You've destroyed everything, so move forward and find new worlds. New, better places. You know I'm right. Kill yourself."

Johnny didn't respond, only shuddering as his hands clutched tightly at his shoulders. D-boy and Mr. Eff watched him for a few moments before walking off, their Styrofoam limbs making slight squeaking noises with each movement.

"What use is it. He's not going to do anything now. He's just going wallow in self-pity."

"No surprise there." D-boy glared at Mr. Eff who readily returned it. "But when he finds the energy, I'm sure he'll be on my side again. I assure you, he's _going_ to kill himself. We'll be reunited after all and that'll be the end of it."

"I'm _this_ close." Mr. Eff raised a hand, although he did not have all the digits to indicate the measurement. "No one is going to stop me. No one. That Edgar boy is my card. You'll see. He's going to buy me time."

* * *

Edgar remained on his bed, staring at the blurry area where Johnny had departed for a length of time he could not exactly quantify. When he finally did move, his arms and legs felt stiff and moved jerkily, and immediately were accompanied by the uncomfortable pricking sensation of renewed blood flow.

He picked up his glasses and put them on before stepping off of his bed. He sighed softly to himself as he walked towards the door.

_Is he really gone...?_

_Most likely._

Edgar opened the door cautiously and sure enough, his apartment was empty. Although Johnny had apparently been rather busy after Edgar had gone to sleep. Most of the books on his shelf had been pulled down and scattered on the floor, open to seemingly random pages. Some of his drawers had been pulled out and their contents spread across tables and desks. On closer inspection, he noticed that all of his pens had their caps removed. Odd.

The TV was still on, although on a low volume. He could faintly hear more noticeable syllables as actors spoke, but on the whole the sound had faded back into a comfortable hum. All the lights were on as far as he could tell. Apparently Johnny had gone exploring when Edgar had left.

He opened a closet to find its light on, but its contents mysteriously undisturbed.

_Why would he turn on a light only to close the door on it?_

_It probably meant something to him. Considering you don't have an exactly stellar record in the 'understanding Nny' department, I doubt any of your_ _ guesses could be more valid._

Edgar felt a general sense of unease in the back of his mind, something that he was unfamiliar with. Something was amiss, something important and yet easily fixable. Something...

_Where are you?_

_What?_

_Are you near my bed?_

_...Are you referring to the toy that that small, wide-eyed boy gave you?_

_Squee, yes. Where are you?_

_Hold on. You're asking me where your little toy is. Why?_

_You..._

_Is that how this is going to work? I don't suppose reminding you of how futile this is will change your mind, right? Reminders of how I'm a part of you, a mental piece of yourself, would any of that change your mind? Because to be perfectly honest, I think this is bordering a little on the 'crazy cat lady' side here, Edgar. _

_You really don't want me to do this, do you? Why is that?_

_Obviously because it means you're going insane. You've personified me enough, haven't you?_

_No...no, I think I know why you're doing this. You're still trying to hide in me, pretend to be a part of me. I'm not falling for that because I know that you aren't a part of me anymore._

_Anymore, hmm? Implying that, at some point, I was? Do you see what I'm getting at? _

_Where are you?_

_You mean, where is your little Scriabin toy._

_...Scriabin..._

_Yes, that is, in fact, his name. I'm glad you were paying attention._

Edgar smiled to himself at the excessive sarcasm in his mental voice's tone. He was defensive, struggling. He had him now, he knew it.

_Your name is Scriabin. _

_You're giving me a name, Edgar? This is not a good sign. You know that, right?_

_And now I'm one step closer to getting rid of you. Just pull you farther out of myself and eventually I'll go back to normal._

_I'm sorry, but that has to be one of the funniest things I've heard yet. There's no more normal for you, Edgar. Not while all the lights in your house have been turned on and there's some homicidal maniac wandering the streets out there with a bizarre connection between love and death and you. How are you going to sleep tonight? _

_Scriabin, where are you?_

Edgar paused in the hallway, waiting for his response. He heard him give a soft sigh before the familiar mocking tone was audible again.

_Fine, I'll play your demented game. But don't say I never warned you. I've been fighting this from the beginning. You just keep giving in. _

_Where are you?_

_I believe your psychotic friend put your action-figure in one of the drawers in your bedroom._

No wonder he felt so ill at ease. Scriabin had been moved from his appointed place...he should take care of that.

As he walked back towards his room, he nearly tripped over an open book that had been left in the hallway. Mumbling angrily to himself, Edgar leaned down and picked it up, glancing at the words for a few seconds before snapping the book shut.

_I didn't know he liked to read. He seems to read a lot, actually, considering all the books he pulled down. But he seems so interested in television and movies... _

_Excuse me for breaking your enthralling reverie, but I don't think Nny was reading._

Edgar unconsciously carried the book with him as he went back to his room. Flicking on the light, he noticed that his room had also been tampered with while he had been asleep. Noticeably his curtains and window were open, which he swiftly remedied. One of his desk lamps had been knocked over, although it did not look damaged.

_How could he have knocked that over without me noticing...? _

_You know, considering whom we're dealing with, I bet he just put it down sideways because it looks better that way._

Edgar sighed and continued looking around. The stack of books near his bed had been toppled, although they were not open, and his closet had also been rummaged through. His clothes still remained in their drawers, although they looked hastily refolded, and the drawers themselves had been left inexplicably open. One of his spare trench coats was on the floor next to a few empty hangers.

"Do I really sleep that heavily?" Edgar mumbled to himself as he opened one of the few closed drawers. Scriabin's plastic form greeted him, both of his arms now directed straight upwards. Johnny must have played with it while he was asleep.

_I wonder how long he was in my room before he spoke... _

Edgar shivered slightly as he replaced Scriabin by the phone. The feeling resided, finally, and Edgar felt as he could relax. Fixed.

_Look at that book. _

Edgar finally noticed what he had been holding in one hand.

"It's a book, I don't see what's so peculiar about it..." Edgar grumbled to himself as he began flipping pages without paying a great deal of attention.

The book had a single blank page in the back, typical of the printing process. When he reached it, Edgar stopped.

Scrawled across the page were random sharp lines, zigzagging across the paper with such violence that it had left physical imprints. There were a few grooves that he could feel when he ran his fingers over them that had no markings to accompany them.

A black, jagged mess.

_I think he was testing your pens. _

_...Why?_

_Well, why don't you get the other books and find out?_

Edgar sat silently for a while, plotting out his next actions carefully, and put the book down purposefully on his bed. He would systematically pick up all the discarded books in all the rooms and after organizing them by length, go through them one by one, checking for any other signs of Nny's presence.

_You really are a piece of work, aren't you Edgar? _

Edgar put his plan into effect with a simple-minded focus, struggling to quiet his general fear at what the books would contain. Dates for his impending death? Methods? Or just all too personal looks into Johnny's mind?

_There's the problem, Edgar. Do you really want to know what goes on in Johnny's head? It frightens you, doesn't it? That's hardly a scientific way of looking at things. _

Edgar ignored Scriabin as he made his way back to his room, arms full of books of varying lengths and sizes.

Quick perusal discovered that Nny had experimented with several books before apparently he found a pen he liked. In the particular book where this was located, the scribbles and jags had formed coherent words, although they were disjointed and made no sense. A few syllables, random letters thrown together, Johnny's name.

Finally, he found a book with actual legible writing. It was a printing that had two blank sheets at the back. Johnny's writing was cramped and jagged and written entirely in capital letters, occasional spots or blemishes between words from his designated pen. Any space not filled with letters had small drawings instead or phrases that must have occurred to Johnny after filling a page.

_Dear _

Edgar closed the book with a twinge of conscience.

_I don't know if I should be reading these...it's an invasion of privacy... _

_Oh please. You went through all this work to locate and classify all of your books that he mangled and graffitied in and now you're claiming the moral high ground? You're just scared of what they'll say. Go ahead and read them. _

Edgar reluctantly reopened the book, his eyes staring at the words and looking away several times before he finally forced them to stay still.

_Dear _

The next word had been scribbled out and rewritten several times until only a black blotch remained. Beside this, with a few lines crossing it out, was the final word that Johnny had apparently decided on.

_Dear book, _

_I shouldn't be doing this. These aren't my books. This isn't my house. It's just...so quiet here. Felt like I should say something. Edgar went to sleep._

_He's not going to like me writing in these. Couldn't find any paper though. Unless it's in his room. I don't want to go in there yet._

The next few sentences were written in larger, angrier letters.

_Fuck! Why doesn't this man have any soda? What ungodly manner of house is this! I want my sugary fluid! I want it! If I can't go out and get it myself, he should have it for me! Why? Why, God, why! Why must I be cursed to be without my precious caffeine? _

Although more words scrawled across the opposite page, the sheer ridiculousness of what he had just read caused Edgar to pause.

_Marvelous. The inner workings of Johnny's brain right here at your fingertips. Is it all you thought it could be, Edgar?_

_I have soda in one of the lower drawers._ Edgar thought indignantly. _Why didn't he check there? I'm not some godless heathen just because he couldn't find my soda._

_Yes, Edgar, that is exactly what you should be focusing on right now._

Edgar got up and headed for the kitchen; increasingly incensed that Johnny could have ranted so angrily about something that was not even his fault. Despite the ridiculous over-the-top manner of Johnny's small rant, Edgar felt as frustrated at him as if it had been a valid complaint.

Smiling as if he had won the non-existent argument, Edgar found his collection of soda cans in one of his fridge drawers, rolling about freely. _See? He should have been more observant. _

Scriabin's words came very slowly._ Congratulations, Edgar. You are amazing. _

Edgar headed back to his room, flipping the pages to where he had last stopped.

_This house should have a cat in it. I told Edgar that and he looked at me funny. He's not too good at this sort of thing. His house makes me feel strange. It'd be better if there was something else here other than him. All those obnoxious little cat hairs and that cat food. Not that I would like that. Fucking allergies. I just think that _he_ would. It seems like a nice normal thing for him to have. And this house really needs something in it. It's so quiet. Maybe it's just because I am far away, but I don't think so. Everything talks if you listen hard enough. Nothing talks here. Except Edgar. Sometimes even if I don't ask him too. _

_Scared of him._

The last line cramped on the very bottom of the page, along with Johnny's simple initials, ended the small entry.

_Scared of me? _

_He's scared of me?_

_Why on earth would he be scared of me?_

_Well, let's be logical here. When has Nny ever been frightened?_

_He seemed rather frightened back when we were talking a little while ago._

_So he's frightened of you? _

_Well, that's not exactly it. I think he was more frightened about how I accepted--_

_No, you're over-specifying the situation. Let's step back and see the forest again. He was frightened about how you felt about him. He's frightened of how much or how you care about him in general._

_That makes this sound all too personal. I think he's frightened I may reject him._

_Very true. I won't deny that. But I think you're trying to declassify him again. Pull yourself out to look at it from a logical standpoint. It's not healthy to do that sometimes, you know._

_It's worked well for me so far. Either way, Nny also focuses on how I seem so lonely..._

_So lonely indeed. Edgar doesn't get lonely, does he?_

_I've heard it all before. Let's stay on topic, alright? Nny talks about how this place seems empty. I think that's just because I'm so neat about everything compared to his house._

_Your powers of analyzation amaze me, Edgar._

_Either way, he seems fixated on this cat thing._

_You know what would be funny? If Nny wished he was your cat._

_...That's not funny at all._

_You should lighten up._

_Anyway, so far this says that Nny is both frightened of how I feel about him and thinks I'm lonely as well. Rather conflicted, really._

_Johnny IS contradiction._

_No wonder he ran out of here so suddenly...I bet he had to think._

_Does put some perspective on things, doesn't it. I bet he wrote more in one of your other books. Go look._

Edgar closed the book, putting it in the separate pile he designated for read books, and picked up the next one. This book was one of the rarer kinds in that it had three sheets of blank paper at the end, a comparatively large number. There were some large scribbles near the top of the sheet as Johnny tested his pen once again, an unhappy stick figure sulking on one side, and some random jags for reasons Edgar couldn't determine. In the margins a few random words appeared amidst other blotches of ink...moon, dark, where am I, what is this, not here, noize, incessant buzzing...

_Dear book _

_Not going to get used to that, but maybe this'll be the last time I write that. Ruined so many of his books now. Now I'm permanently in his life. That both elates me and depresses me deeply. I shouldn't be doing this. Everything is going to end like it has before._

_Can't do this. Going to run. Going to run before it dissolves. But how? Wanted to wait till things were perfect, but now I feel like maybe I missed it. Should I kill him now so that I don't risk things getting worse? But this isn't perfection yet. He's mad at me, I'm sure of it. He didn't like me throwing things around in his kitchen. Didn't know where anything was. Should have been more careful._

_Everything is complicated with him now. Don't know how to feel around him anymore except terrified. Don't know if I hide it very well. _

Edgar shook his head despite himself. Johnny certainly _did_ hide it well.

_He doesn't hide it well at all. He gets this terrified look, like I'm wearing some kind of dead moose on my shoulders. It's kind of funny, actually. Sometimes it is. Other times it reminds me that I'm only making things worse._

At this point several words were begun, crossed out, scribbled over, and started again. A few of them trailed into nonsensical loops and jagged ends and others just stopped midword.

_Never going to get this right. Never ever going to get this right. It's different now. Devi...ruined it with her too. Still think about her now, think about her whenever I think about him. But I know Edgar now. Know that he could never hurt me. He would never fight back. He's not a fighter. If I did decide to freeze him like I tried with her, I would succeed. But I was going to freeze her perfectly. Loved her then and knew she loved me. Never felt so happy in my entire life, but then she fought. Someday I'll explain it to her, and she'll understand. Maybe we can start over. _

_Don't want to ruin this with Edgar. I want to do this right._

His now familiar initials ended the long entry. There were a few more scribbles, marked out words and small circlish shapes littered among the page.

He felt a wave of pity sweep over him when he thought about what he had just read. Along with this came the recollection of what he had seen that night at the movie theater. The image that the cramped words presented was not the Johnny he had met, he had seen tonight, who had stormed out in inexplicable rage. This one seemed to be the picture of a typical abandoned, lonely person, desperate for some kind of affection but more intensely afraid of acceptance.

_So tell me Edgar, how many Lifetime movies did you watch before you could psychoanalyze people SO accurately?_

"I can't believe..." Edgar thought back to his initial conversation with Johnny after he had met up with Devi. How he had to guess as to what happened. Now that he had a glimpse of Johnny's perspective, it gave him a whole new twisted outlook on the entire affair.

As well as on what Johnny had planned to do with him.

"I'm so important to him...I almost...validate his existence..." Edgar closed the book as he spoke quietly, narrowing his eyes in thought. He carefully put it with its companion, balancing the two books neatly as he selected another one from his other pile. He opened it, flipping through to the end carefully and cautiously, almost morbidly afraid of what he would find out next.

"And of course, he's just _so_ important to you too, isn't he?"

Edgar very slowly turned away from the book and looked at Scriabin, who remained perfectly still. He waited.

The calm, mocking voice had he become so familiar with over time again spoke, this time cutting physical air. Its undeniable source was the inanimate plastic figurine. "Oh, you can't say you're surprised now, can you? In a great many religions, maybe somewhere even in your own, Edgar, you know that giving a name can also give power. That sounds so ridiculously cliche though. Let's just say that if you want to speak out loud, fine. Let's speak out loud."

Edgar stared at Scriabin for a few minutes before he spoke calmly and slowly. "You are not speaking to me this way."

_Feel better?_ The familiar mocking tone was back in his head._ This is all up to you. Besides, I thought you wanted to make me separate from you. You know, pull me out and heal all nice and normal-like, right? You've become quite the hypocrite. _

"Look, I'm not going to deal with this right now." Edgar spoke with a strange tinge of frustration. "There's more important things for me to think about than you."

"That's right." The voice again displaced to the action figure. "You have to think about Nny again, right? You care so much for that boy. Amazing. He is going to kill you, you know."

"I know that." Edgar turned back to the book, wishing he could shut Scriabin out entirely. Strangely, the fact that Scriabin had moved to the action-figure that had inspired his name did not surprise him as much as Edgar thought it would. He viewed the transference with a strange detachment, convinced that this was a normal occurrence.

_He isn't me, therefore. He's getting away from me. That's a good thing._

"See, Edgar, this is what I was talking about. I told you not to name me. You've gone from 'mildly unsettled' to 'full-blown talking-to-yourself' crazy."

"I'm not crazy."

"And look at the proof! You're talking to a plastic toy!"

"That's not going to work now. I know that you aren't me anymore. You can't trick me."

"You idiot, that's not what I'm trying to do. Is it so amazingly difficult for you to go back and put all the pieces together? What have I been trying to do all this time? It certainly hasn't been trying to make you crazy. I've been trying to keep you _sane_."

"You're lying."

Edgar focused his attention on the end of the book, his hands trembling. Only one sheet at the end of this book. The writing was cramped and tighter than ever before, the scribbles around the words angrier and darker.

_Dear book._

_I don't like that name._

_I wonder if Edgar is dreaming right now. I wonder what he dreams about. Sleep must not be hideous for him. That would make sense. He's not insane._

_I want some chips. God fucking dammit. Why doesn't he have any chips._

_Feel bad about doing this still. But maybe he'll find them and read this. I don't want that. I should put them back when I get the chance. The books. Clean everything up, and that way he won't know I did anything. At least, not until it's too late. Then he won't care. I mean, I don't think he would make a big deal out of it anyway, but I still feel bad about doing it. This isn't my die-ary. But I feel like I should write something. It still feels wrong though. _

_I wonder what Edgar would do if he knew. Knew everything. He doesn't really know everything yet because I don't think he'd understand and I think it would scare him. I don't want him to be scared. That would make things ugly again. He does look really amusing when he's frightened though, but it's not worth it._

_It's still kind of funny though._

_He seems so normal. So amazingly normal. Maybe he can teach me. Maybe he knows. Maybe in one of these books there's a cure. He's put up with me for so long, he's dealt with everything I've thrown at him so far without cracking or trying to crack my head open. Maybe he knows something I don't. A special thing. Something about me or people like me. Maybe he knew other people like me. Am I not the first? Is that why he wasn't frightened back then? Is that why he isn't frightened now?_

_He says he doesn't trust me yet. That hurt. But I'm going to make him trust me somehow. He has to trust me first before anything better can happen. Have to get him to trust me. I don't know how. He asked me if I hated him. Of course I don't. If I did he'd be dead already and I wouldn't be trying to do this. What a ridiculous question._

_I wonder why he asked it._

_He's so calm about everything. What's it like to be so calm all the time? To never have all those hysterical fits I read about in other entries I made._

_I wish I brought his coat with me. I like that coat. I like like that coat._ The first 'like' was crossed out._ It feels calm. _

_Maybe I should tell him. If I told Devi, maybe she wouldn't have tried to hurt me. Maybe she would have understood. Edgar's understood everything I've told him so far. I know he'd understand this. He'll nod and look all thoughtful like he does and he won't punch me in the face. I should tell him._

_But what if he doesn't? I didn't think Devi would hurt me. What if he does come after me? What if he says no?_

_Maybe I shouldn't. Maybe...I should. I hate being indecisive. It's all I am anymore._

The end of another entry.

"Amazing, hmm?"

"I wonder where he is now..." Reading through such melancholy and confused entries was beginning to have an effect on him, sympathetic emotion clouding his thoughts. His voice reflected this. "Maybe at the movie theater or somewhere else he feels safe..."

"Wake up, Edgar. The only place he has that's safe is you. Therefore, you're the most terrifying thing in the world for him. It's not that complicated, is it?"

Edgar glanced at the plastic toy. "And you accused me of cheap psycho-analyzation."

"Yes, but I'm afraid I actually know what I'm talking about. I'm an actual part of your psyche. I think I have a little experience in the field, particularly with your friend Nny. And you haven't really denied that what I'm saying is true."

"Fine. I think that saying that he's frightened of me because I'm not a threat to him is an over-simplification of the entire matter. As you've reminded me so many times before, he's insane. Therefore we can't truly understand his motivations."

"You've used that as a blanket excuse for so many things."

"_Me_? You've got a little problem with your pronouns there."

"_I _don't think so."

"Either way, I'm not sure why Nny ran out on me like he did, but I'm beginning to understand why he stayed here."

"I understand why he left. Remember? He wants to make things perfect with you, although what that exactly means I'm not sure. Maybe a nice white picket fence, house, two point three kids. Whatever. Either way, he had perfection on the bed with you while you held hands in a classic tear-jerking moment, all rights reserved. Guess what that meant, Edgar? It meant he had to _kill you_. But our dear conflicted boy doesn't want to."

"And why wouldn't he want to?" Edgar sighed as he picked up another book, exchanging it for the finished volume. "That's why he's kept me alive this entire time."

"Well, you can think of it in various ways. Either he cares too much about you to kill you--which I doubt considering he loved that Devi person and tried to kill her right away--or he needs you now for some reason that conflicts with his moral philosophy-"

"Wait, needs me?" Edgar turned back to his figurine as he flipped through pages in the book. "Why would Nny need me? I don't do anything for him. He doesn't need anyone."

"Well, what do you provide for our friendly neighborhood maniac? What can you do with him that he can't do with anyone else?"

Edgar paused and ran a hand through his hair. "Well, talk I guess, but he mentioned that he has enough mental voices to talk to himself forever."

"He also mentioned that he was glad to be away from them here. He wanted it to be quiet here."

"Glad was not the exact word-"

"Why did he come here, Edgar?"

"He...wanted me to fix him."

"There's your answer."

"That's not an answer. What does that mean?"

"Well, it means that you have the power to influence his behavior. Or at least, Nny thinks you do."

"...Why would he give that power to me?"

"You don't just give away power, Edgar. It's something you either have or don't have. For example, Nny has power over you. You didn't consciously give it to him, and even if you unconsciously did give it to him, you're not removed enough from the situation to have a logical view on it. Power is immutable and natural. Although Nny has spent almost his entire time with you terrorizing, confusing, and startling you, somehow he thinks you can change him. He thinks you can help."

Edgar shook his head slowly. "I...I don't understand why."

"Well, probably because so far you haven't attacked him like Devi has. In fact, I don't think you've attacked him in any way excepting tonight. You're a doormat, Edgar. Perhaps because he feels so comfortable, he lets himself be changed by you."

"That still doesn't work because that means he's giving power to me, and this is all sounding like cheap pop psychology again." Edgar gestured with one hand, regardless of the fact his audience would not be able to see it. "I don't understand Nny."

"That's the understatement of the decade. I still haven't given my last motive yet."

Edgar took a deep breath, struggling to calm himself down. "Alright, what is it?"

"Johnny may have deliberately sabotaged your relationship."

Edgar looked back down to his book. "And why would he do that?"

"Well, remember how he said it was perfect before? That's what Johnny wanted, right? But what if that wasn't exactly what he wanted? Like he wanted something more. But how could he convince himself that he didn't actually have perfection, that he'd have to try harder? He'd have to find something to focus on, blow that out of proportion, and use that as an excuse. Therefore, more time for the two of you to spend together and be delightfully monosyllabic."

"But why would he do that? He has no reason. If he was happy with me before, why would he put off killing me and ruin his own plan? It makes no sense."

"Well, let's say that Johnny reached the perfect peak of friendship. You following me?"

"Yes." Edgar could not hide his irritation at Scriabin's snide condescending tone.

"Well, maybe that wasn't enough for him. Say he reached that pinnacle and realized how easy that was. Maybe he wants to reach higher than that. Maybe he wants to reach that special level of happiness that Devi inspired in him before. So make a new goal and work for that. Make sure you eliminate your previous statement of victory and move on."

"Wait wait wait wait." Edgar placed a hand on his forehead, feeling a distinct headache coming on. "What exactly are you saying? Are you insinuating that Johnny is trying to make me into Devi?"

"Not my exact words, but you've got the general concept. I think you're missing the big picture here. You tend to do that. Ooo, I felt your heartbeat quicken. You're getting awfully emotional over this. Does it bother you?"

"Does what- Well, _yes_ it bothers me." Edgar struggled to keep his voice level. "I mean, this is transference at its basest and yet most twisted level. This won't end happily for either of us."

"Edgar, please. Was it going to end happily before? Think before you speak. Maybe Johnny doesn't want you as a friend anymore. Maybe that doesn't make him happy enough."

"I don't have to listen to this." Edgar turned his attention back down to his book, his hands now shaking violently along with his voice. "This is just a theory of yours."

"You seem rather agitated by it. I think you doth protest too much. What if, Edgar?"

"Scriabin, be quiet."

_Dear book._

"What if, Edgar, Johnny didn't have perfection back then? What if he was wrong all along?"

_Dear book._

_Maybe I should tell him._

"Maybe..."

_Maybe I should tell him. I think he'll understand. I'm frightened though. But he's understood before. Maybe he'll understand. I should tell him._

"Maybe Johnny _loves_ you, Edgar."

"Shut up." Edgar glared at the frozen figure, his voice tight and soft. "I know what you're doing to me, Scriabin. I know you now, and I know what you're trying to do. I'm not going to fall for it."

"My _goodness_ that thought frightens you, Edgar. You're breathing fast and your heart rate has jumped through-"

"I'm going to read now. I'm not listening to you."

"So quiet and confused before. 'Oh help me, I can't figure this out on my own!' The minute I present something that has one iota of truth in it, you throw a tantrum. What are you going to do, Edgar? If your physical reaction is any indication, the thought of him-"

"I'm not listening."

"It terrifies you. Well, that and something else. There's an amusing thought. Edgar and Johnny. Together forever. You could have little hearts with arrows through them that saw 'JC + EV 2getha 4eva' or something just as amusingly trite. In fact, since I can tell you're absolutely furious right now--well that or extremely aroused--you can even pretend that JC stands for Jesus Christ, because God knows you love him so much."

Edgar shut his book and stood, his entire body shaking violently. With as much grace as he could muster without speaking, he left his bedroom, slamming the door behind him as he did so.

Once on the other side, he dropped the book he was holding in one hand and grasped his head tightly, his mouth frozen in a silent snarl of rage. A fervent whine of pure fury escaped his throat, unfamiliarly breaking the now quiet air. He panted for breath for a few seconds, and then finally released the hold on his forehead, wondering if the pounding was because of his rushing blood or because he had applied too much pressure. He stood there, breathing hard, waiting for his body to calm and his typical demeanor to return. Once he felt that he was under sufficient control, he knelt and picked up the fallen book, flipping back to the last page. Another single sheet of paper.

_You can't get rid of me that easily. You can't scream, slam doors, and run upstairs to your room and sob into your pillow. I'm not your parents. I'm not someone else. I'm you. And no matter where you go, I'm always there._

Edgar ignored Scriabin's voice and walked over to his couch, sitting down with trembling limbs. As he rested the book on his lap, he noticed the words jumping around on the page as his legs shook with adrenaline.

_Dear book._

_Maybe I should tell him. I think he'll understand. I'm frightened though. But he's understood before. Maybe he'll understand. I should tell him. I don't know. I'm frightened. Maybe he won't accept it. Maybe he won't understand the connection._

_It's so clear to me. It's the only answer. It worked so well before. All those others were frozen so beautifully and so perfectly. They were so in love and I loved them so much. And now I can look back on them and they're still so beautiful._

_Someday, when I look back on Edgar, it will be just as beautiful. I will have perfection. Total and utter perfection. No more fear that day. I won't be afraid anymore and neither will he. Everything will be just perfect. _

_I'm afraid of him. Afraid of him turning into one of the others. Turning against me. Becoming so hateful and angry. I don't ever want him to hate me. I don't want to hate him. He's the only thing I have left that hasn't turned me away so far. He and little Squeegee. I should check on him._

_I wonder what he's doing. I hope he's alright._

_If only I had told Devi! I know she would have understood._

_That's it. I have to tell him. I have to tell him about this. About everything. Explain how beautiful this will be, how I need him to be beautiful and perfect. I know him, know he'll understand. I know he will. He'll be perfect. He'll be just as beautiful and perfect as the others._

_I need to tell him. I have to tell him. I have to tell him now, before it's too late and I go back. I have to do something. I have to. He's asleep now. I'll go in there and talk to him._

_Maybe later. I can't do it now, I'm too jumpy. I shouldn't have waited this long. I should have said something before. Now I have to wake him up. He won't be as understanding then, I'm sure of it._

_Stop procrastinating and do it! Get up and go do it! You have to tell him. You have to tell him what this is all about, what he has to do. You have to tell him._

_Maybe after this show is over._

Edgar closed the book and sat silently, pondering.

_With every passing line, it becomes clearer. Every passing minute you live, he needs you more and more. I can throw these melodramatically poetic lines at you all day if I have to, Edgar. I think I'm on to something here. I think I know. I think you know. _

Edgar put the book to one side and stood slowly, stretching out. With quiet resolve, he walked towards his bathroom.

"I'm going to take a shower."

_Brilliant plan there, Edgar my boy. Then what? _

Edgar opened the door to the bathroom, finding it almost entirely untouched. As he ran the hot water and watched steam rise up into the room, he glanced at the mirror. Directly in the center of the glass were a series of fingerprints, each more elongated and almost desperate than the last.

At the top, a meaningless scribble in almost impossibly thin lines, no doubt from the edge of a fingernail. Beside that, Johnny's initials were marked, with the thickness of an entire finger pad, into the now foggy mirror.

Edgar stared at this silently for a few moments before sighing softly. With the same calm and resolve, he spoke again, knowing that no matter where he was, Scriabin would hear him.

"Tomorrow, I'm going to go book shopping."


	12. Gone

_What are you looking for? What do you expect to find?_

_Something. Anything. It's obvious at this point I don't know enough about this situation, so I'm going to resolve that._

_For once Edgar, listen to me. This is not something you can solve logically. If it was, it wouldn't be _insanity_._

_I'm not insane._

_That's right. _You're_ not insane. Mmhmm. What are you looking for?_

_I'm going to find some books that will hopefully give me some perspective on why Nny reacted the way he did._

_I don't think they write books about people like Nny, Edgar. Everyone that touches him dies._

_..._

_Well, everyone except you._  
  
Edgar wandered the shelves as he studied each title closely. His mental conversation was rather distracting and at points he would glance over the letters but not register the words. He had assumed at first that this bookstore, with its obviously darker atmosphere, would have something on this kind of problem. A book about rudimentary psychology, sociology, or perhaps sociopathology, anything that he could consider useful. Instead he found rows upon rows of fantasy and science fiction, each more similar then the last. A dragon on one, a maiden on the other, dragon and maiden together, a dragon, a maiden, and a warrior. Occasionally, a maiden and a maiden.

The bookstore also seemed to lack an accurate cataloguing system. Of the few sections marked out among the rows of books, he found that they contained things that only loosely related to their subject matter. A section titled "Psychological" ended up being ridiculous thriller novels which were no help to him. All of the serial killers in the books tended to be the same; hideously evil and sadistic, without redemption, and often sexually addicted to something or someone.

While Edgar could not vouch for Nny's sadism--considering the machine that he had once been trapped in--the other characteristics he found insulting.

_What, do you think they went and found a real serial killer so their book can be more accurate? Of course not, Edgar. These are mockups, fantasies, cardboard pinups of horrors created so that the actual fear induced by such people is lessened. Go home. You know you won't find anything here._  
  
Edgar ignored Scriabin and headed to a different section, this one titled "Reference." Hopefully, this would contain something of use to him.

Among books detailing vampires, werewolves, yetis, and aliens, he found a few books that at least looked slightly credible. _A Beginner's Guide to Psychology_, _Psychological Disorders_, _What To Do When Your Spouse is Irredeemably Insane_...

_That last one sounds adorable. Get that one. I bet it'll suggest you dressing up all fancy and serving oysters._  
  
Edgar picked up the three books, finding his cheeks itching and burning. He reached up to scratch at his familiar scars before remembering the bandages. He tried to scratch through them but it felt blunt and awkward, making the itching all that more irritating.

_It's not your scars._  
  
Edgar headed to the counter with some relief, finding the atmosphere of the store somehow stifling with each moment he spent inside. Despite the fact that there were few people here, he felt their presence to be somewhat irritating. A tall, gaunt boy dressed in black hanging around the vampire section. A frightened, mousy woman who seemed to be hiding from something. A young woman sitting in the corner devouring one of the cheap thrillers while chewing obnoxiously on her necklace.

_Look at that, Edgar. Isn't that amazing? These people haven't done anything to you and you're already annoyed. I think our lovely maniac is rubbing off on you. That's unfortunate, but also very funny. Pain is funny, don't you think?_

_I'm not insane._

_Yes, I know. You don't have to convince me._  
  
"Excuse me?" The woman at the counter snapped her fingers at him in irritation. He returned from his mental argument with a start.

"Oh, I'm sorry...I drifted off for a moment there..."

"Yeah, um...is this all?" She looked down at the three books with some measure of suspicion.

_Hey..._  
  
Edgar felt a sudden strange sense of unease, similar to when Scriabin had been moved. Odd. He couldn't place it exactly, except that somehow the woman had triggered it. Her physical appearance was not particularly offsetting--despite the fact she had purple hair--so that didn't seem to be the problem. Actually, she was rather attractive.

_Aren't you going to make some kind of joke about that?_

_..._

_Scriabin?_  
  
"How are you going to pay for this?" Judging by her expression and her tone, she felt somewhat uneasy as well. Edgar could not explain this strange friction but it was definitely unsettling. He had never seen this girl before, so why would he react this way? And why would it affect Scriabin to the extent of silencing him entirely? Nothing had ever done that before, not that he could recall.

"Cash..." Edgar pulled out his wallet, noticing that the woman would occasionally stare off blankly, no doubt in the same fashion that he himself had only a short time before. His voice was quiet although somewhat shaky. "If...um, I hope you don't think I'm being rude, but...what's your name?"

"Huh?" She stared at him, confusion now entering her previous suspicious glare. "Why? I won't go out with you, so don't bother asking me."

"No no, nothing like that." Edgar held up one hand as some vague placating gesture, the strange sensation only intensifying with every second spent near her. He counted out his money almost three times before actually putting it down on the counter. "No, I'm..."

_'I'm seeing someone.' Yes, I know what you were going to say, even if you didn't know the full ramifications of saying it._

_Is leaving myself that open what it takes to bring you back? What happened?_  
  
Scriabin fell silent.

"I'm not...interested in that right now."

"Mmhmm." She obviously didn't trust him, counting out the money on the counter the same amount of times Edgar had. He noticed as he stared at her thin fingers that they shook almost imperceptibly. "Fine. I'm Devi, but don't get any ideas."

A sudden surge of panic rushed through Edgar's entire body, urging him to run immediately with or without his books.

_Shut up SHUT UP stop being stupid and listen LISTEN. You need to be calm and act like nothing is wrong. I knew it, I knew it had to be her...listen, just buy your books and leave, all right? Leave and don't say anything._  
  
"I...I won't. My name is Edgar..." He stumbled through his words and hoped she wouldn't notice the sudden change in his behavior. "Edgar Vargas."

"Well, nice to meet you, Edgar." He could not interpret her expression as she pushed the three books into a bag. She stared at him. "Can I assume those bandages are a result of your...spouse?"

"I-I guess you could say that."

_I can't believe this is her. I can't believe it. What are the odds? Of all the bookstores in the entire city, I chose this one. Why?_

_More importantly, Edgar, why is she making you feel frightened? She can't hurt you. She's a victim as much as you are. In fact, you two are rather similar..._

_She...God, I wonder if she knows how Nny feels about her...she seems so normal. I don't know if she would understand if he explained it to her._

_Well, she fought him off, something you never did. I think it's safe to assume she at least_ resisted_ Nny's everlasting love._

_I should tell her...I should tell her how much Nny-_

_Don't you tell her a word. Don't you say a fucking thing or I swear to your God I'll make things very painful for you. Don't tell her anything and particularly, stop staring off into the distance like a mental-case. You get your books and you get out._

_Why are you so frightened?_

_I'm not frightened._

_Then why am_ I_ frightened?_  
  
When he finally came out of his mental conversation, he realized almost five minutes had passed without interruption. Devi had stared at him the entire time with an equally strange and distant expression on her face. Seeing Edgar jerk out of it apparently galvanized her back into action.

"Be sure to come again." Her words were jerky and hesitant as she handed him his bag. He couldn't read her face at all. All he knew was that she must be suffering the same growing sense of vertigo, nausea, panic, and fear that he was.

He had to get away from her. He had to get away. He felt almost like he was going to be sick, like something was struggling to get out of him, shredding his insides as it tried to crawl out of his body. He was getting increasingly dizzy and he had to reach out twice before he finally took hold of his bag.

"Thank you, I will."

He stumbled out of the store, breathing a sigh of relief.

Edgar leaned back against the glass that stated the store's name, breathed deeply, and hoped that the intense dizziness and anxiousness would pass. He eventually sank down to his knees while he stared at the dirty sidewalk and wished it would stop moving.

_Calm down, Edgar. Jesus Christ, you're such a drama queen. Look, you're outside now. Calm down. She can't affect you here. You're safe now so stop making yourself sick and go home._

_...Scriabin, what was that?_

_What was what?_

_What happened in there...what was that?_

_I told you to leave and instead you made small talk with her. You have no sense of self-preservation._

_Scriabin..._

_You wouldn't believe me if I told you anyway. Don't ask me._  
  
Back inside the store, Devi leaned down on the counter with her hands clasped behind her head, struggling to breath calmly and evenly. It took a few minutes before the woman could lift her head steadily and regain her composure.

By that time, Edgar had moved on down the street towards his car.

* * *

It was raining the day the world ended.

Edgar spent most of the next two days reading. For the first night he had felt exceedingly jumpy. He expected the phone to ring at any moment but it remained stubbornly silent.

_Of course, Johnny has every need to call you._  
  
Scriabin had provided something of a running commentary on each book he was reading. He had refused to respond to him and, annoyed, the voice had eventually fallen silent. That was a relief.

Scriabin was waiting for any opportunity to attack him at this point, so to prevent any possible openings he tried to keep his thoughts clear and logical. It didn't work but it did make him feel better. As if he could control what Scriabin would and wouldn't react to.

_That's so sad, Edgar. Seriously._  
  
He put down the final book that he had purchased and rubbed at his forehead. He had suffered from a severe headache for most of the past two days and he wasn't sure why. It was hard to concentrate. Scriabin's snide voice didn't help.

_Well, that's the last book. What have we learned?_  
  
Edgar disliked speaking to Scriabin and had made a particular point not to do so for the past two days. He believed that talking directly to him gave him more power somehow. But he decided he would indulge the figment of his imagination this once.

_I think I may be able to deal with his outbursts and mood swings a bit better now..._

Scriabin settled into his familiar sarcastic cant as if he had been waiting for Edgar to acknowledge his presence.  
_  
Oh? Really? How? By validating his decisions and his feelings and letting him discover the solution to his own problems? Watch him knock over a glass and respond "Oh no, the milk has spilled, we need a sponge?" It won't work, Edgar. You _know_ it won't. You know as well as I do. Those books have no useful information on Nny because they were not written with Nny in mind. _No_ one has written a book with someone like Nny in mind. This information won't work on him. These little reflection techniques and conflict resolutions tidbits won't solve the problem of him being _insane. _You _can't fix_ him_.

Edgar had not spoken out loud for some time, particularly not in his house. He disliked being faced with Scriabin's physical voice. It reminded him that things in his life were not quite...in order.

_You're going insane, Edgar._

He had made a habit out of ignoring him.  
_  
I think I should call him. It says that I should try and make the first step sometimes, it would allow him to be able to communicate with me more easily. Maybe take some pressure off him._

_This isn't going to work, Edgar._  
  
He reached over and picked up his phone, staring at the slip of paper that Johnny had given him what seemed like ages ago. His fingers punched the buttons and he waited, the clicking sound of the phone ringing almost unbearably loud.

_You're frightened he'll pick up._  
  
Six rings.

There was a pause as Edgar tried to decide what to say. His mouth fell open and yet, he could not think of a single thing that would be appropriate considering what had happened last time. An apology? A greeting? A plea to stay on the line so he could explain himself?

Scriabin wasn't helping. He was counting backwards rather loudly in Edgar's head.

"...Hello?" Johnny's hesitant and confused voice came through the phone. Edgar barely had time to think of how strange it must be for Johnny to actually _receive_ a call before something broke his concentration.

Wzzzz

BLAM!

Whump!

AAAAIEEEK!!

"Johnny?!" The strangled shout came from his throat without conscious effort. "Johnny, are you okay? What happened? Johnny? Nny? NNY?"

Panic.

"Oh my God, oh my God...oh my God, what happened? What could have happened?" He was talking to himself and he didn't remember starting. He hung up the phone at some point.

"I'm not quite sure." Scriabin's voice emanated from the small figurine the moment Edgar spoke aloud. "But you're going to go find out, aren't you?"

"Oh God, what if he's hurt?" Edgar threaded his arms through the sleeves of one his coats as he continued to ignore the toy. He found it hard to think and hard to breath. He had to focus. He had to remember. He had to remember where Johnny's house was. He had to find out what happened if Johnny was okay that sounded like a gunshot-

"What if-"

"Why do you care, Edgar?" Scriabin asked in an almost bored tone. "If this is all some grand scientific experiment for you, then why do you care? There are other subjects out there, after all."

He put Scriabin in his pocket without thinking about it and hurried to his car. His hands shook. He felt as if the streetlights above were jerking out of focus, felt that the entire world was shaking just to make this more difficult. The rain pouring outside was only to make the drive harder, to make him feel more uncomfortable as it soaked past his collar and into his shirt. The world was against him at this moment, it had completed its goal of finally killing Johnny and now that he had the chance to do something about it, it was trying to make this as difficult as possible, there was no way he'd have time, there was no way he could contest with the will of whatever greater being...

Scriabin...that was Scriabin's voice, not his own.

He fumbled with the keys in both the door and the ignition before he finally pulled back onto the road.

"I have to...if he's..." Edgar couldn't even form coherent sentences as he tried to focus on driving, worrying, and remembering at the same time. Where was Johnny's house? He knew that it was down this road but after this he always tended to blank...

"This is just so sweet. It really is." Scriabin was deep in the folds of his coat, but his voice was just as clear and annoying.

"Why can't I remember?!" Edgar felt his voice crack with frustration. He slammed a momentary fist against the steering wheel. Every minute he constructed worse and worse scenarios and as each one found its completion he found the guilt and worry only piling up higher. "Why can't I-"

"You're an idiot." Scriabin sighed. "If you'd just calm down...think. Where is Squee's house?"

Edgar struggled to follow Scriabin's advice, tried to remember the wide-eyed boy, where he had parked and waited, where he had dropped him off that one time. It came to him. It came to him clearly and quickly and he knew where he had to go.

"Why..." was the only word that he could force out.

Scriabin sounded amused. "A better question at the moment is _what_, really."

* * *

Edgar parked in front of Squee's house. In his rush to get out of his car and find out what happened he forgot to undo his seat-belt. He ended up spending a few awkward moments fumbling with the clasp while Scriabin laughed at him.

Once he had successfully extricated himself from his car, he noticed with some confusion that there were no other vehicles near the boarded-up house.

_So whoever it was that had attacked Johnny didn't come by car..._  
  
Scriabin laughed spitefully and Edgar did not know why.

When he got there it was still raining. That would explain why he couldn't see any stars or even the moon. He knew they were missing because he had caught a glimpse of the curiously blank sky as he had glanced up to see if the streetlights were on. They weren't. That had to explain the encroaching darkness around Johnny's home.

_Why aren't the streetlights on? Was there a blackout that I missed? How could I miss a blackout? I don't live _that_ far away..._  
  
He was about to open the door to Johnny's house when he heard footsteps and screaming from inside.

Although initially Edgar had felt a rush of adrenaline that he was typically unfamiliar with, now he felt definite apprehension. He hadn't considered what he would do if someone else were there. He wasn't particularly physically gifted by any stretch of the imagination and if he did try to engage whoever was in the house in some kind of combat, it was most likely that he would wind up another victim. What to do?

_This is not good._  
  
Scriabin sounded worried...that was odd.

_I suggest you get in the house._

_But-_

_Just get in the house, Edgar._

Scriabin had the same authoritative tone in his voice that he had heard before when he encountered Devi. Considering the rarity of this tone, he decided it would probably be a good idea to follow Scriabin's orders although he wasn't sure what good it would do.

He gave the world outside one last perusal before he entered the house. It seemed to somehow be getting darker with each glance at the blank sky. He couldn't even see any clouds. He could hear something moving beneath his feet and the floor shook with a vibration that was oddly familiar.

He felt the need to question even though he was already opening the door. _But what if-_

_Shut it behind you._  
  
Edgar did so.

The house, although it had seemed empty before, seemed even more empty now. It was still filthy and covered with wrappers, discarded paper cups, and he could see the distinct patch of blood caused by his previous head wound. Something was missing. The television was still in the same place...

Where was Johnny?

He took a few steps further into the house and saw a bizarre contraption that seemed to be hooked up to the telephone. It involved a gun somehow.

So that was what happened.

For a moment he wondered why Johnny would hook up such a device, but it was only for a moment.

_Does it hurt you inside to know that you couldn't stop him from killing himself, Edgar? _Scriabin's voice sounded strained.

With another careless step into the room his foot encountered something. He looked down immediately and found that he had stepped into a rather large pool of blood.

_How could you _not_ notice that?_  
  
A trail led from the sticky pool into the adjoining room, bloody fingerprints stretched and distorted until they looked claw-like.

He felt sick.

Edgar swallowed hard and forced himself to follow the trail of gore into the next room. He could hear voices from somewhere else in the house although he wasn't sure where. Somewhere near the staircase.

There he was.

A pool of light from somewhere illuminated his crumpled thin body and the shriveled head of an infant rabbit near him. Curled slightly on one side with one hand still dripping blood. He had apparently had the energy to scrawl some words on the floor that were slightly smeared, perhaps from near-death convulsions. From the rasping, wheezing sounds coming from his throat, it seemed that Johnny was still alive.

Somehow.

Edgar didn't remember how he got to Johnny's side, only aware that he was there and shaking him gently.

"Johnny? Johnny, oh God, Johnny, are you okay...oh God..." Edgar's voice was shaky, thin, and high. Johnny took a deep breath that gurgled in his throat as his body twitched in an effort to respond to Edgar's voice. He tried to turn over but apparently could not find the energy.

"Edgh....ghaer..." He could hear the blood spattering from Johnny's lips. Edgar's grip on his arm tightened involuntarily.

_Do you really want to see what happened? Do you, Edgar?_  
  
Johnny finally rolled over, with some gentle aid from Edgar.

He could not avoid or disguise the cry of horror and disgust that came from him at the sight of the demolished side of the man's face. The gunblast had taken out Johnny's eye entirely, leaving only a gaping, bleeding, ragged hole lined with fragments of bone. His hair was thick and matted with blood and peppered with small things that he could only assume were bits of his skull. Edgar could almost see through the gore to the hardwood floor, or maybe he did. It was hard to tell with the copious amounts of bleeding Johnny was doing currently. It ran down his face, across his ears, into his mouth. He gurgled at Edgar again; slight bubbles of blood mixed with spittle forming at his lips.

_If this was how the front of his head looked...God, what did it do to the back..._  
  
"Edgar...." Johnny managed to say with some clarity. Although his face seemed to be almost destroyed, somehow Edgar got the feeling that Johnny was relieved that he was here.

_He's going to die in a matter of moments, Edgar. Severe head trauma. Gunshot wound to the head. It's amazing he's alive at all now. You can't save him._

Seething hatred._ Shut up._ _How dare you try and-_

_You never _could_ save him, Edgar. You can't call 911 and get him help now. He's gone. He's going to die, right here, and there was nothing you could do. In fact, maybe it was even your fault! Because you had to make the first move. You _shot him_, Edgar. You shot Johnny in the head. He's only got a few moments. A few more seconds of life. Of disgusting, convulsing, bleeding life. And then he'll die. You can't save him. You never could save him. You _won't_ save him.  
_  
_Shut up._ Edgar tightly closed his eyes until stars appeared in the darkness._ I hate you so much. Why do you have to try and ruin this for me? Why do you..._  
  
The amount of hatred and frustration running through his body mixed with the wave of emotions that came with him desperately trying to deal with Johnny's imminent death. It made him shake uncontrollably. He could feel a familiar itching irritation running down his face. Maybe he was crying. He didn't intend to.

_God, I hate you so much._  
  
Johnny was staring at him--or in the general direction of him--with his one remaining eye which was getting increasingly clouded over with blood. His body was spasming slightly.

"Kkskk....n-nothing...behind the..." He coughed wetly, blood getting all over Edgar's shirt. "Veil?? ...Kgks....system...d-down..."

"Nny, try and stay with me."

_You can't save him, Edgar._

_SHUT UP._

"Try and stay awake. I'm going to go get help. I'm going to get you some help. Try and stay awake." He was repeating himself because he had nothing else to say.

Johnny's hand jerked upwards and grabbed the front of his shirt tenaciously. He tried to hiss at him but the blood in his mouth prevented it. He mostly ended up spraying blood in Edgar's face for a few moments before he realized how useless it was.

_I have to go get help. I have to get help but what can I do, he grabbed me for a reason, what if Johnny dies while I'm gone..._

He could see the muscles twitching around the ruined portion of Johnny's face, trying to control things that were no longer there. Nausea was beginning to overcome him which only made him feel worse.

"Kkkggx..." Johnny coughed as lines of pink saliva trailed from his mouth. "Don't....go. I...gmmfgg...am...you..."

"Johnny, stay still." Edgar wanted to pull Johnny's hand away, untangle his fingers from the fabric of his shirt, stop him from attempting to lift his head up to look at him with what remained of his functioning eye, but he couldn't move. He was paralyzed.

He didn't want to touch him.

_Because you think he's disgusting, Edgar._  
  
"Lissten..." If he were intact perhaps Johnny would have been giving Edgar one of his manic, intense looks. It was hard to tell now. All that Edgar could focus on was the hideousness of the wound. He could see blood as it pumped through Johnny's body to run down the side of his face.

The voices had been getting clearer. Edgar had not been paying a great deal of attention. The footsteps that entered the room, accompanied by a loud, arrogant voice, was finally enough to drag his eyes away from the jagged hole in Johnny's face.

Two people had walked into the room from somewhere below the house. Edgar wasn't sure where. A bald man who seemed incredibly irritated and a woman dressed and decorated primarily in black.

"Look what I found!"

Apparently the man had been so focused on Johnny's discovery that he hadn't noticed Edgar. The two exchanged blank looks for a minute until Johnny let go of Edgar's shirt, falling back against the floor with a moist squelching sound.

"Who the fuck are you?" He sounded annoyed at Edgar for even existing. Already he could guess how he had come to be imprisoned here.

"I'm Edgar. It doesn't matter." He was surprised at how calm his voice sounded. "Look, we don't have much time. You have to get to the phone-"

_Why on earth do you think they'll help you, Edgar? Do you think Johnny kept such congenial relations with all his victims?_  
  
"Phone? Why the fuck would I want the phone? Did you get out of here too? Fucking skinny bitch!"

"Krik, we have to get out of here!" The woman in the back spoke up. "He'll die soon enough. That thing is probably right behind us, so let's go!"

_I doubt this is going to turn out well for you, Edgar._  
  
"You go on, get out of here." Krik stared at Johnny with pure hatred and took a few menacing steps towards him. "I want to put a few dents in this...uhh...this...fucker!"

_Not well at all._  
  
Edgar stood as Krik made his way towards him, vaguely offended at this man's lack of priorities. "What do you mean? He's bleeding to death as it is! Why would you need to..."

Johnny coughed again, his voice muffled and garbled. Eventually discernible words came through the gurgling noises. Even now, Johnny's voice sounded hateful. "You won't be going anywhere...you're dying too. Kkchh..."

Krik seemed torn between dealing with Edgar and dealing with Johnny. Eventually he turned to Johnny since that was where the majority of his hatred was focused. "What?! What the fuck did you just say? Oh, man, I'm gonna..."

_Yes, what _did_ Johnny just say, Edgar? I wouldn't think too hard about it._  
  
"What? You'll kill him?"

"What? You'll kill me?"

Unintentional echo.

"He's dying as it is!" Edgar was trying to summon enough righteous anger to look intimidating. He stepped between Krik and Johnny and crossed his arms. "What would be the point? And what do you mean, 'that thing?' Is there something else here?"

Before the woman could respond, Krik had gotten rather close to Edgar and was shouting in his face.

"Do you know what that skinny fuck did? Huh? Do you?"

_Of course you don't. But I wouldn't say that out loud._  
  
"Just because he fucking looks like a goddamn fucking cocksucker he locked me in this fucking toilet bowl of a room! Fucker!" Krik stared down at Johnny as the wounded man attempted to stare back at him. "Making me eat shit every time I talked and those fucking Noodle Boy comics! FFFUCK!"

If Johnny wasn't slowly losing higher brain functions and his throat wasn't so clogged with blood and mucus, the sound he made would have been a much clearer laugh. Despite all that, Krik seemed to understand its significance.

"I'm going to fucking kick your ass!"

"What? No!" _What are you doing? What do you think you're doing?!_ "No, this is stupid! You're going to beat up someone who's already received a shotgun blast to the head!"

"Krik, the _thing_!" The woman behind him reminded him with just a touch of hysterical panic in her voice. "Just get over it!"

"And you! What's your fucking story, you fag?" Krik did not appreciate Edgar blocking his path. "Just as skinny as he is. Fuck, bet you two were fucking queers-"

"No we weren't and is that really important right now?" Edgar felt anger edging into his voice and the familiar sense of adrenaline. He turned and looked at the woman. "What 'thing' are you talking about?"

"Don't ignore me!" Krik apparently found the fact that Edgar had focused on something else for a few precious seconds a grave affront. "You dick!"

_Here we go._  
  
"I wasn't-"

"I don't fucking care! Just get out of my way so I can teach this skinny fuck a lesson!"

_Move._  
  
Edgar didn't move.

"Killing someone who's bleeding to death...Fff....Fuck, you people...you...how stupid you are." A choking gasp for breath. "Resorting to the same old monkey brutality, afraid to look up from your bloody dicks. Afraid of transcendence..." Johnny coughed on the floor as his words escaped through a mix of blood, bile, and saliva. He choked for a moment and his entire body shook as he retched more blood. How much blood could such a thin man have?

Johnny looked at Krik who was glaring at him with as much hatred as humanly possible.

He coughed again, flecks of spittle flying from shaking lips. A feeble laugh.

"Heh...your head looks like a potato."

Edgar looked back at Johnny with some measure of confusion at the clarity of his previous words. How could he be able to say so much considering how much damage he had endured at this point?

Krik was either too shocked or too disgusted to react to Johnny's statement before he spoke again. Despite Krik's desperate desire to acquaint Johnny's head with his foot repeatedly, he listened for a few more moments, almost as if for some impossible apology.

Johnny coughed again, trying to clear out progressively clogging passages. "And how stupid was I? I...actually paid attention to you. Devoted precious thought to it. God... I used to love the noises I heard in my head."

_Didn't you, Edgar? _

_This is important._

"Hhh.... I never should've left my room.... my room, out there, I almost remember it, it's gone now... along with everything else... vanishing..."

_Do you remember, Edgar?_

_What are you talking about?_

Johnny managed another choked gasp of what might have been laughter. "Heh...Potato..."

A vein twitched on Krik's forehead as Johnny curled and retched again, this time vomiting on the floor, although from the small amount it seemed this hadn't been the first time recently. Most of its content was blood, which may have explained why.

His voice rasped across abused vocal chords. "Ukk... I never got to see it... the wall thing. This isn't pleasant... I'd rather not be dead... don't want to die... don't geez... This is worse than goth poetry... agg..."

"Johnny..."

_Did I say that out loud?_

Johnny tried to raise a skeletal arm to wipe away some of the blood and mucus that blocked his nasal passages, but his arm only spasmed violently before falling back down. "No more stars.....no...clouds...nothing.... It'sssssssss..." More flecks of blood from a body-shaking cough. "It's such an easy thing to say you hate something... so easy to hate... what a piece of shit I am... I ca.... I can't believe I went the easy way... I thought I knew... I wish I know something... anything.... Ehhh...."

Despite the growing vibration and shaking coming from below, all three of the intact people in the room seemed captivated by Johnny's last words. What they were hoping for was hard to say, although what he said did not fulfill any of their expectations.

_He would never say what you want him to say. _

_Shut up. _

There was a short silence that even Krik seemed to respect before Johnny coughed again, this time laughing more clearly as he stared at Krik.

"Actually.... your head looks more like a reject jelly bean."

"Oh, that's it!" Krik raised his foot with the intent on kicking Johnny's already mutilated face into further disrepair.

_No don't DON'T STOP_

Edgar moved in front of Krik. "Don't you understand? This is more important then-"

His fist smashed into Edgar's face.

With a sharp cry of pain Edgar fell back, sure that his nose was broken. He could feel blood running down his face and into his mouth. The rush of adrenaline and pain at the blow was phenomenally strong and easily surpassed any emotion that Edgar could remember. Unfortunately, the sudden blow had left him dizzy and had not improved his previous nausea in the least. He staggered back and tripped over one of Johnny's legs. While one hand remained on his face in an effort to staunch the steady flow of blood, his other arm windmilled through the air. Johnny didn't move.

Once his balance had returned, he tried to focus on his new enemy.

_Oh God, don't do this. Please don't do this._

His glasses...wherever they were, he didn't have them now. They probably broke. But he could make out the shape of Krik about to begin his kicking assault on Johnny's head.

_Don't don't don't DON'T_

That rush of adrenaline gave him a sense of power and confidence that was sorely misplaced. As he struggled to see clearly Edgar rushed forward and pushed Krik away from Johnny's body.

Krik hadn't expected any more resistance from Edgar so he was shocked enough to allow himself to be pushed back. Edgar couldn't see his expression but he doubted that he was pleased.

"Krik! The thing! C'mon! We'll all be dead if you don't hurry up!"

"Fucker!"

Edgar balled his fist and tried to defend himself. He tried to hit Krik in the face but instead managed to hit the side of his head. The sharp stabbing pain that shot through Edgar's hand, particularly the joint in his thumb, gave him the impression that he wasn't doing this correctly.

That small voice of logic persuaded Edgar to try talking again. "Leave him al-"

Another blow, this time to the side of Edgar's temple. The entirely unfamiliar pain shot through his head and his body panicked. The blood clogged his throat for a second and he coughed to try and breath. Krik took this opportunity to kick Edgar in the gut.

He fell back against the floorboards entirely winded. Despite his body's desperate desire to retaliate Edgar couldn't make himself move. It was hard to think. His head ached to an extent he couldn't even describe and the blood in his mouth and throat wasn't making this any easier.

"You fucking queer, trying to fucking tell me what to do, I'll fucking put my boot up your fucking ass, you fucking queer bitch!" Krik kicked at Edgar's back viciously. The only thing that Edgar could do in his state was try to roll away ineffectively.

_I told you not to._

When Edgar curled into a ball to try and minimize the damage being done, Krik focused on kicking his head.

At least, that's what he thought happened.

Things were getting hazy at that point.

_Look at you._ Scriabin's voice was faint._ You can't even defend _yourself_, let alone someone else. You're pathetic._

He couldn't see anything anymore. His nasal passages must have collapsed because they weren't working anymore and he could only breathe through his mouth and that was getting increasingly difficult. The intense bleeding was very inconvenient as were some of the loose teeth that now rattled around in his mouth. _Get rid of those quickly, they could be dangerous._

He was dimly aware of a tooth sliding from his lips in his best effort to spit it out.

_Close enough._

He couldn't feel the collisions anymore so maybe Krik had stopped kicking him. That was a relief.

_He's probably kicking Johnny. No wait, there he goes._

"You're too slow, bitch! I killed that fuck, and I'm getting out! Haaaa!" He could vaguely hear the man shout. The sound of footsteps towards the front door.

With the last of his conscious energy he rolled over and opened his swollen and puffy eyes.

_What do you expect, my dear boy? Do you expect Johnny to be concerned over you? Over your welfare in any way? Do you expect him to be hovering over your body and weeping beautiful crystalline tears? Congratulations, Edgar, now you're BOTH dying._

His vision had worsened past its already horrible state due to the involuntary tears his eyes shed in an effort to clear them of the blood and mucus. He could see Johnny's back.

He hadn't moved at all.

Edgar heard a loud scream from the other room despite the fact that he felt as if his ears had been ripped off his head.

He saw Johnny's body shudder as if he was about to say something.

_This is it, Edgar._

_Goodbye._

And just like that, he didn't exist anymore.


	13. Lies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: For best effect, listen to Vast's "Pretty When You Cry" while reading this.

_Our Father who art in heaven hallowed be thy name _

_I don't want to die please God please God I don't want to die_

_Our Father who art in heaven hallowed be thy name thy kingdom come thy will be done_

_I don't want to die oh please oh please have mercy on me I was only trying to do what I thought was right I don't want to die oh God please_

_on earth as it is in Heaven give us this day our daily bread_

"Jesus Christ, Edgar, overreacting a bit, are we?"

_And...forgive us..._  
  
He opened his eyes.

There was nothing.

It was all white. The ground, the sky, the walls, everything was white. Pure white.

It was an enormous void of nothing.

It was assumed that the constant color was what made the appearance of absolutely nothing possible, since Edgar was standing on _some_thing. It looked like nothing, but it was definitely something. However, whatever light source there was here was not kind enough to help develop distance. There was no shading, no dimming of color farther away. Everything was the exact same shade of white without exception. Or nothing was. Mind-numbingly empty.

He turned around.

They did look a lot alike.

A man stood there with his hands held behind his back and a confident smirk on his face, completely at ease with these bizarre surroundings. He had the same long nose, the same square-like facial structure, the same thin body shape...

But his hair was shaggy and long, he wore a trench coat and underneath a striped shirt with a blank white box in its center, black jeans and boots...

Reflective glasses.

And he moved...

"Oh come now, Edgar. You can't say you're really surprised, can you?" Scriabin smiled at him.

Edgar could not think of anything to say. He stared at the figment of his imagination without any real expression, too shocked for any emotion to leak through the logical breakdown he was currently experiencing.

_But how..._  
  
All he could think about were all those times he had spent on the phone, passing time by moving the toy's limbs when he was bored. Now the toy moved by himself. He moved with a strange grace and ease that shouldn't be possessed by things that didn't exist.

And Scriabin didn't exist. He couldn't exist. Not like this. This wasn't what he looked like in that preview for the movie.

It was like Edgar was staring at himself. A more attractive, confident, sarcastic version of himself.

And that was what Scriabin was and couldn't be.

Scriabin seemed to enjoy the attention. He knew what this was doing. He had to know. He had to be able to feel the machinery in Edgar's mind shutting down. He smiled with a sense of contentment that caused Edgar to shudder.

"My goodness, you certainly picked up some melodrama from our dear now-deceased friend. Let me make this easier for you."

Scriabin snapped his fingers.

After the whiteness around them absorbed the noise, the familiar feel of his glasses pressed against the bridge of Edgar's nose.

His glasses. He must have lost them during the fight.

_But how...how is this possible..._  
  
"Um..." Edgar finally said, his voice hollow and thin in this huge expanse of nothing. Once the word escaped him he gained a bit more control over his reaction to the figment's physical presence. The apathy and acceptance aspects of his personality kicked in, strong and protective. Utter shock and surprise fading to confusion and some vague curiousity. "Where...where am I?"

"Ah, my favorite part." Scriabin moved towards Edgar. He couldn't tell if he was walking or floating in this place. Everything was the exact same shade of white so he wasn't sure if there was a floor to begin with. It was hard to tell if this place expanded into infinity or just didn't expand at all. The color made everything too even.

Regardless, Scriabin closed the immeasurable distance between them and took hold of his chin, forcing them to make extended eye contact. He spoke with barely concealed excitement and sadistic pleasure.

"Edgar my dear, you're dead."

Edgar blinked at him for several seconds. Whatever it was that Scriabin said refused to register.

"No." He said without thinking.

Scriabin just smirked at him in response as if he had expected just such a reaction.

"Yes."

The shock of what Scriabin said began to wear off and Edgar felt himself able to think more clearly.

"I'm...I'm not dead. I can't be dead." He held his arms out to indicate all the white. "Where's God? Where's Jesus and Saint Peter?"

Scriabin laughed at him.

_God, I hate you so much._

He turned away.

"It's all empty here...where is everybody?"

_Ha, answer that._  
  
Scriabin gestured to the white in much the same way Edgar had, mocking his tone of voice. "Well, I can explain that rather easily. As I told you before, there is no God, but that's not what's really interesting or relevant to your question. This, Edgar, is what your mind looks like on default. Safe mode. Any other metaphor you'd like to make. This is what your mind looks like when there's nothing there to clog it up, no mortal plane or petty responsibilities. Rather blank, hmm?"

_Sure. Uh huh._  
  
"Well then, why are we here? If I'm dead, like you say, then why am I in my head rather than in Heaven?"

Scriabin seemed to enjoy the fact that Edgar was playing along. "Think of it as a detour, although I don't know why you'd want to come here. It's rather depressing once you think about it. A gigantic realm of pure possibility without the chains of logical limitations and all you can think of is nothing. Not even a chair or anything."

_He's lying to me._  
  
Scriabin continued. "I think it's interesting how here, where you have full control over everything you do and see, over the entire area we're in, you're still the same. You could technically look like anything you want to here. And look at you." He pointed at his own face, beneath his eyes that were hidden behind his reflective glasses."You've still got those scars."

_Well, how was I supposed to know I could change my appearance here anyway?_  
  
"Scriabin, I have no reason to believe you." There was a pause as Edgar looked him over again, despite how sick it made him feel. "And I hardly think you're one to judge on how I would decide to look, considering you've made yourself out to look rather handsome."

"Don't hate me because I'm beautiful." Scriabin smiled and then turned away to the vast blank whiteness. His trench coat followed his movement at a bizarrely slow speed. "This place is defined by _your_ thoughts, not mine. Therefore, my appearance would only reflect badly on you. That's beside the point though. As I said before, there is no god. It's because of me that you're here at all. I thought this would be a good chance to spend some quality time with you."

_Lying to me again. Well, no matter what he does, he's not getting the upper hand here._  
  
"Yes, that all sounds very pretty but you've given me no reason to believe anything you're saying. You've lied to me before and you're probably lying now. This must be some kind of lucid dream you're using to try and trick me while I'm unconscious."

"I can see why this place is so barren." Scriabin crossed his arms. "You're so skeptical. Believing so strongly in one thing that nothing else is even a possibility."

_What?_  
  
He turned back towards him and pointed upwards. "But since I can sense your curiousity, I'll explain a bit further. Your beliefs aren't entirely incorrect, but they aren't entirely correct either."

The enjoyment Scriabin took at abruptly changing the subject just when it approached Edgar's initial question was quite palpable. "Do you find it as curious as I do that when you have the opportunity, you make me look beautiful while you don't change your own appearance?"

Edgar ignored the question. "I still have no reason to believe you. Despite all your metaphysical babbling, you've given me no proof as to whether or not this is the afterlife. I don't exactly have a good reason to trust you."

Scriabin shrugged.

"Fine, don't believe me if it makes it easier for you. Never mind that you saw the whole universe dissolving before you passed out but hey! That was all a dream, right?"

That's right, he did recall...seeing something. But things were so hazy at that point...

"Anyway, that's not what I really brought you here to discuss after you've shuffled rather pathetically off this mortal coil. There's something more important I want to talk to you about."

Edgar turned away from Scriabin while he was talking. He was trying to find a way out of this white place, or at least some kind of tangible borders, vertical or horizontal. He tested the air with his hand in a few directions and met no resistance, but still had no sense of true distance. It was really disorienting.

_I want to get out of here._

There was a pause in the conversation that was almost deafening and Edgar considered turning around to look at Scriabin, but found that he had no desire to do so. Every time he looked at Scriabin he felt his heart jump into his throat and his stomach turn. Something felt very wrong and yet very familiar about him, particularly seeing him in motion, and that familiarity was trying to trigger some emotion or acceptance in Edgar's mind of something he didn't want to think about. He felt his heartbeat rise as he even glanced over it. What Scriabin could mean. What Scriabin's presence could possibly mean.

"_This_ is what I wanted to talk to you about."

Curiousity did kill the cat.

When Edgar turned, his previous surprise at seeing Scriabin come to life was nothing compared to what he felt now. He fell back against the white but since there didn't seem to be a floor, he didn't fall...or at least, he didn't feel himself falling in the strictest sense of the word. His hand leapt to his chest and clutched his shirt closest to his heart as he let out a sharp, pained gasp. It rasped through his chest with almost a coherent word. He stepped back again as Scriabin floated serenely towards him, apparently a bit more acquainted with the physics of this area than Edgar was.

_But he had seen...but how...no..._  
  
"Oh, don't look so surprised." _Oh God. Oh God._ _That mocking voice...this is wrong. This is so wrong._

The sheer enjoyment in Scriabin's voice was quite evident as he leaned in close to Edgar, his now dark-blue hair brushing against him. "I told you you could change your appearance here."

Edgar tried to scramble away from him again at the contact but Scriabin simply floated after him, still smiling. God, it was wrong to see that sadistic sarcastic smile on...on his face. On Johnny's...

"Scriabin, that's just _sick_." Edgar finally blurted out, his voice revealing more emotion than he would have liked. At the sound of his distress Scriabin laughed again, this time genuine enjoyment at the effect of his new body's appearance. He rested one claw-like finger on his chin as he looked upwards in a mockery of a scholarly way. Seeing Johnny's body do this, even if Scriabin was controlling it, made Edgar nauseous.

_This is so wrong so wrong so wrong he shouldn't be able to do this how can he do this how can he do this oh God you can't do that you can't he's dead how could you_  
  
"Not exactly the reaction I was expecting, but interesting nonetheless."

God, everything about Johnny was perfectly imitated. From the dark stringy hair to his thin skeletal bone structure...even his clothes had been perfectly recreated right down to his boots. And yet, in Johnny's facial expression, Edgar could see Scriabin inside, just using the body as if it were some kind of marionette. He could see in the sadistic glee behind Johnny's eyes, the careful controlled expression as Scriabin thought of just the right way to exploit one of Edgar's weaknesses.

And here, he had found one of the biggest.

"Scriabin, this is wrong and I'm not going to be part of it." Edgar turned away from the Johnny-facsimile and crossed his arms, staring intently at his feet. _Go away. Go away. Go away. Stop it and go away stop it right now you shouldn't be able to do this_  
  
"'Scriabin Vargas, you go to your room!'" Scriabin spoke in a mocking high tone. Edgar could hear the smile in his voice. "Edgar, you're going to have to sound angrier if you want people to take you seriously, and that's a big if."

Edgar crossed his arms tighter and tried to move as far away from Scriabin as he could in this strange place. Without distance, there was no way to increase it. He closed himself off as best he could in terms of body language, refusing to speak as if by ignoring Scriabin he could make him go away.

"Why are you shying away from me as if I'm going to attack you?" Scriabin asked in a lazy and somewhat smug way. "After all, you put _so_ much trust into your relationship with Nny. Why on earth do you think that I would hurt you?"

_Because you're not..._  
  
The sarcasm in Scriabin's voice hurt. "Oh that's right, this entire relationship is based on pain! On voluntary submission and eventual-but-quite-assured death! How could I forget that tiny detail?"

_That's not true. It's not true._  
  
Edgar shut his eyes and gripped his arms so hard he couldn't feel his fingers anymore. But he could feel Johnny's-...Scriabin's hand as it came to rest on his shoulder.

Almost paralyzed, Edgar could only mumble softly in response. "Don't touch me..."

Scriabin of course entirely ignored him, instead using the grip on his shoulder to bring Edgar closer to him as he rhapsodized to the sky.

"Ah, trying to shut me out again. I'm sorry to inform you that you can't ignore me here, not that you were particularly good at it back when you were alive. Another motivation for this conversation. This time we are going to talk about this."

"There's nothing to talk about."

Scriabin ignored him. "I remember it well. Don't you? I do. We were so young then, so naive and carefree. Back to the roots of all things. He let you go because he didn't need your blood, and then he called you for advice. Of course, back then you were more intelligent I would think. Not so much in need of my constant guidance. At any rate, it seems that as time goes by this relationship, and I'm not talking about ours my boy, has become something other than involuntary."

_Not true. Not listening._

"Oh, I remember it well. Those little screaming arguments we had some time ago, if you recall, about how you just wanted to observe Johnny, just watch him and find out why he was insane, that you just wanted to stay alive, you didn't have any emotion invested in him, about how you weren't a bad person even though you did _bad things_..."

The tone that Scriabin used was a perfect imitation of that long-ago argument and, in response to the words, Edgar felt a familiar stab of rage. _He wasn't-_  
  
"But what is it then, Edgar? What's your justification? Johnny just forcing you into this relationship? Just dragging you down and yet of course you've done nothing wrong? Yes, that's right. You're so totally innocent in this entire mess. Nothing you ever did was your fault, no. Nothing you ever instigated was your idea and look at where you are! Imagine, actually physically fighting someone, or at least pathetically attempting to, to protect a homicidal maniac from further pointless damage. What did it all come to? Now you're dead. You're dead because of him and still, you deny that it's your fault."

_It's not_-

"It's not my fault-"

Scriabin ignored him as he pulled Edgar closer. "You're so deluded into thinking that you're normal and without faults, that this entire relationship happened without your input and you have no part in maintaining its existence, but let's face it, Edgar. This is the only relationship that you have, as much as you pretend you don't need them, and it takes two to tango even if it's in blood. It took two people to use that phone and two people to hold hands and hug." A squeeze on his shoulder to emphasize the point. "I'm sure you remember that. That didn't quite turn out the way we expected, did it? But nothing can really be predicted in this elaborate farce of a real human connection. This is your relationship, Edgar, one that you're mistakenly and bizarrely proud and protective of, and it's getting worse one day at a time. The only relationship in your life that you have and that you tried to protect, to save, is masochistic, twisted, and shamelessly self-destructive."

He was only half-listening, focusing more on the physical sensation of Johnny's imitated body. "Don't..."

Despite his efforts to break away, Edgar's body refused to respond to his directions. He just stood there shaking as Scriabin steadily drew him closer as he spoke. Could shut his eyes but do little else. Whether or not it was Scriabin's influence or it was just the rush of confusion and disgust and everything just crashing in on him, robbing him of his free will, he couldn't say.

He tried. He really tried but in the end he could not resist. The most he could do was raise a hand to feebly press against Scriabin's chest. And God, even touching the fake Johnny's body made him shudder all over. He could feel the ribcage just as before, he could feel the bones underneath his hand.

Scriabin snaked his other arm around Edgar's waist and kept a firm grip on his shoulder, keeping him from moving. He wanted to move. Instead, he could feel the bones that he thought he knew so well pressing against his side, his shoulder, his chest and legs. Johnny's impossibly thin body doing things that _God no God no stop stop it this is wrong no stop it_  
  
As Scriabin pressed his head beneath Edgar's chin, breathing across his throat softly, Edgar tried as hard as he could to get away. To get away, but all he could do was lean his head back, his teeth clenched as he hissed softly.

He felt just like him and that was what made this as horrible as it was.

"Scriabin..." He was struggling but he couldn't move. Something prevented it. The presence near him, the same deathlike presence of Johnny so near to him prevented it.

"But that's the whole point, isn't it?" Scriabin whispered, the flow of breath across his skin causing Edgar to shiver uncontrollably. He tried to push him away but his body wasn't responding. Not the way he wanted it to. "The pious little fortune cookie loves to be dominated. Controlled. Why else would you trust your life to some father figure that doesn't exist? Follow his rules, submit to his will, punish yourself for breaking imaginary laws. And you like it, Edgar. You're proud of it. You're not ashamed to admit it and yet now, you fight against it."

_stop oh God please stop stop it stop it i don't want to hear this it isn't true if i could if i could move i would move why can't i move why won't he shut up i don't want to hear this i don't want to hear this it's not true it was never true it'll never be true i don't want to hear this please please please stop please make him stop please something stop make him stop make him stop make it stop i want control again i want to run i want to run i don't want to hear this i don't want to hear this it's not true i'm not like that and i wouldn't do something like this and johnny wouldn't do something like this its all a lie this has to all be a lie_  
  
The thin bones moved and shifted against him, falling in and out of place in a way that was sickeningly familiar.

Scriabin's lower hand drifted and his voice remained at a throaty whisper coming from the wrong throat. "Shameful, really."

_stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop don't stop stop stop stop stop_  
  
The brief touch of teeth against his skin. "It turns you on."

_You're lying._  
  
A flash of fury that apparently only those words could trigger rushed through him, strong enough to give his body the ability to move. With a quick jerky motion, he threw his arm up and pushed Scriabin away from him.

"Get _off_ me!"

Scriabin simply floated backwards as if Edgar's movement had not affected him at all. He had a pleased expression on his face, one that Edgar had never seen Johnny get. Ever. And it made him feel sick again.

"Look, I've tolerated your taunting and insults long enough!" Edgar advanced on him, one hand clenched in a fist at his side while his other pointed at him accusingly. "I'm not going to stand here while you use Nny's body to..."

He felt his breath catch as he tried to even talk about what had just happened. "To _hit_ on me! I'm leaving!"

Edgar turned away from Scriabin and began walking.

Only a few minutes passed in thankful silence before he could hear Scriabin's voice from somewhere.

"You know the funny thing about nothing, Edgar?"

Scriabin appeared in front of him so quickly that Edgar could not contain a short gasp of surprise.

"It loops in on itself."

Surprise was quickly replaced with rage. Scriabin settled into a curious detached pose as he regarded Edgar clinically.

"You know what I think is interesting? Your reaction to me being all sexual and touchy-feely. Do you really expect a relationship like this to last?"

_There is no relationship-_  
  
"Wait, no. I remember now. He's going to _kill you_ because he loves you so very much, not make love to you. Unbelievable."

_He wouldn't-_  
  
Edgar refused to respond, instead only shaking with visible anger. Scriabin looked at him and smiled in a condescending way.

"Would you prefer me to act ambivalent, moody, and distant? Is that the only relationship you're comfortable with? After all, that would match your god's profile pretty well, wouldn't it?"

Had to keep the emotion out of his voice. "Scriabin, let me out of here. I am sick of you. I'm sick of your lies."

Scriabin turned away from him, moving his hand in an imitation of someone talking. "'My name is Edgar! I deny everything!'"

Pure rage.

Normally he refrained from attacking others but at this point, it was all he could think of to do.

"While we're picking people apart for their mistakes, what about you, Scriabin?" Edgar hadn't thought this through all the way yet, but the way that Scriabin's borrowed body tensed showed that it had some affect. He quickly tried to find something to focus on. "You've built up this elaborate fixation on my 'relationship' with Nny to the point of using his body to hit on me!"

Scriabin turned and stared at Edgar and to his total surprise, he looked completely shocked. He had attacked Scriabin before but apparently nothing had ever quite hit this home. With a weakness to latch onto, Edgar thought and spoke quickly.

"Not only do you assign me flaws that you just make up, you belittle me for flaws that I don't have that you project _onto_ me! Jesus, _you're_ more afraid of Nny than I am!"

The look of shock on Scriabin's face was priceless.

Then there was a flicker near his darkly rimmed eyes.

A small pair of spectacles had appeared on Johnny's face. With them came Scriabin's stumbling and halting words.

"Well I...I um, you...you're not supposed to-"

"Where'd those glasses come from?" Edgar's confusion prevented him from reveling in his success for a few moments.

"What glasses?" And sure enough, they were gone.

"You had glasses a minute ago." Edgar pointed at him, feeling an uncharacteristic surge of confidence and superiority. Scriabin was definitely on the defensive now. And God, that felt good.

Scriabin finally got over his surprise and held out his hands as if to stop the current direction of the conversation. "Okay look, this isn't about me, this is about you."

Edgar could not resist. "Not exactly the response I was expecting, but interesting nonetheless."

Scriabin crossed his arms. He was visibly annoyed now. That was an expression on Johnny that Edgar felt more comfortable with. "I find this sudden attack on me unsettling. Considering who I am, that doesn't reflect well on your self-image."

_He's trying to get out of this but failing. I've got him._  
  
And with strange ease, Edgar fell into a very similar tone of voice that Scriabin always used. Condescending superiority. "You know, I've never seen you this flustered. Or heard you, as the case may be. You're contradicting yourself. Is it because I'm fighting back? You know, for someone who complains about me being too passive, you sure don't like it when I stand up to you."

Scriabin held up a hand as if to stop Edgar from talking and closed his eyes. Now that he had the advantage, Edgar wasn't about to shut up.

"You know, I can see why you like tearing people down so much. It's kind of fun."

With a gesture of his hand, spectacles appeared from the nothing and fell gently into Scriabin's thin fingers.

With a sigh, Scriabin put the small spectacles on and glared at Edgar in annoyance. "All right, allow me to explain. I hid these glasses because they are a comfort item. I do believe you recall that whenever you feel particularly weak, your glasses are missing. And you do recall that every time you put your glasses on, you feel more strong and capable. When you feel weak or helpless, your glasses make you feel better. You have this association, I have this association. I hid them because I didn't want to embarrass you."

The sight of those spectacles on Johnny's face was enough to make his stomach lurch again. It was another reminder of exactly what Scriabin was doing. "You're lying and you take those off."

Scriabin blinked at him and then smiled in an excited way. "Wait a minute, do these glasses bother you? Does the concept of Nny in glasses bother you?" Edgar's stubborn silence answered that question. "How interesting!"

He sounded sincere.

_That didn't last long._  
  
As quickly as Edgar had latched onto Scriabin's perceived weakness, Scriabin turned on him.

He had a great deal more experience in this field.

"It's another thing that you and Nny share this way. That's what's creeping you out, isn't it? The thought of you and Nny getting closer and closer. It ruins your image of superiority."

Edgar did not want to hear this. Not after his near-victory. He turned away from Scriabin and crossed his arms, closing his eyes.

"I don't-...just take them off, okay?"

He could feel Scriabin approaching him from behind, a few strands of his hair touching the back of his neck.

"What bothers you more, Edgar? The thought of Nny being sane or you being crazy?"

"Stop it."

Scriabin rested his fingers against Edgar's shoulder and leaned in close to him, his mouth beside his ear. Before Edgar could truly react, his other hand reached and removed Edgar's glasses.

And before he could do anything to respond to Scriabin's unwelcome proximity, something happened.

He could feel it, the breath passing by his ear and flowing past his scarred cheek. He could feel the air leave Johnny's body under Scriabin's control. The knowledge that Scriabin was in control of that body, not Johnny, was what had sustained Edgar through most of this torment.

But this. This was cruel.

The words came from Scriabin with the perfect accompanying body motions. It unmistakably came from him, from that body.

And within those words, the thorns. The thorns that he had known for so long, that had always been present. The same cadence, the same strange broken tone, the same soft dangerous voice.

But it was those thorns, those sharp and dangerous thorns, that proved the validity of these words as unmistakably Nny's, unmistakably from Johnny C.'s vocal cords. Not Scriabin. Not Edgar. No.

And the thorns jabbed into his heart and caused him to give a gasp of surprise, cause his body to fill with adrenaline, with utter panic and shock. To fill with the strange feeling that he did not know or understand because he had never felt or expected _to_ feel it. Nothing in his life had ever prepared him for something like this.

The words came from Johnny in the perfect, absolutely flawless imitation of his voice as he felt his thin hand resting against his shoulder, his cold skin against his own, his body against his back.

"Edgar, I love you."

And something in his mind snapped.

He gave a strangled, shocked noise as if someone had struck him and he nearly collapsed, his mouth frozen open. The heat rushing to his face felt almost blinding and he could see absolutely nothing. The feeling of his glasses was gone and all that was around him was white and the words kept repeating through his head with the perfect danger in each syllable. Every logical part of his mind tried to disprove it, tried to stop it, tried to erase it, but it kept running through his head on repeat, over and over and over with the sensations from before, the feeling of Johnny's body pressed against his back and on his shoulder and the feel of his breathing and he couldn't deny that, no matter how many times he told himself it was Scriabin because it was just too much, just too much...

Edgar was struggling to breath correctly, his lungs refusing to cooperate as he tried to erase what happened, tried to justify it. Tried to reduce the utter horror he felt at those words, the pure and utter horror and terror and fear at those sharp words that cut right through every logical thing he could say. It cut through every small hope that he had for himself and for Johnny, it cut through everything and why not after all that was what thorns did and it was fear he felt that was all he could feel anything else would be wrong and this was definitely fear it had to be fear and oh God

Scriabin had moved away from him some time ago, although he still stood behind him. He hadn't said anything as he watched and probably enjoyed Edgar writhing in a mental paradox of emotion. Despite the fact that he had probably succeeded beyond his expectations, his voice sounded very quiet and level although there was a hint of a smile in his words.

"Not a bad impression, hmm? It certainly impressed you, if that's the word for it."

Edgar could not respond. He wouldn't respond. Not now. He couldn't say anything except incoherent mixtures of syllables. Scriabin watched him for a few seconds before speaking again. This time his tone was dead serious.

"You know what the saddest part is?"

He couldn't breathe.

Scriabin spoke with deliberate slowness so that not one word would be missed. "That's the only time you will ever hear him say that."

And he was right.

Somehow, this had some effect on Edgar. Perhaps it pushed his overworked emotional state over the brink right into apathy again. Perhaps it was because Scriabin had admitted that he had imitated Johnny's voice that made it a little easier to swallow. Either way, he could breathe again.

When Edgar spoke, his voice was surprisingly calm. "Give me back my glasses."

There was a silence as he was sure Scriabin was staring at him in disbelief.

The heat was still present on Edgar's face, but he didn't want to touch his scars. He didn't want Scriabin to see that.

"I find it deplorable and shameful that in a realm of infinite possibility, you still try to shift responsibility to someone else. Do you fear control?"

_I don't want to talk about this anymore. I don't want to talk to you ever again._  
  
"I just want them back."

Scriabin glared at him.

"Get them yourself."

He wasn't sure if he hadn't already been pushed over the edge by Scriabin's torment, but if he hadn't, he was certainly close to losing it now. He clenched his fists and shut his eyes once again, his only remaining method of shutting Scriabin out.

_I made you so obey me and give me my glasses God I hate you so much why are you doing this to me_  
  
"You almost make this painful." Scriabin sighed in a bored fashion and spoke with obvious distaste. "Here." Edgar felt his glasses being pressed into his hand. "You're pathetic. You can believe in a big daddy god with all your heart, but not enough in yourself to make a single pair of glasses."

_I don't want to hear this._  
  
Edgar sighed as he put his glasses back on. The aftermath of all that emotion had left him feeling tired and drained. The exact memory of what happened was already fading as his mind struggled to repair its shattered defense system. Move along as if it never happened. "Look, I'm tired and I want to go home. If you want to argue circles about something that isn't important, fine, but can't we do it at home? I don't even care anymore. And-"

There was a sudden tightening around his neck that cut off his sentence.

Puzzled, Edgar tried to reach upwards to investigate but found that his hands were not responding. When he looked down, he saw that his hands were not only tied together quite tightly with leather straps but another longer cord ran from them down into the white until it faded into nothing, preventing him from lifting his hands at all. From the pressure against the bottom of his throat when he looked down, he assumed that there was something of a collar there. When he tried to step back, he found that the same bonds that had tied his hands had also formed around his legs, preventing him from moving anywhere.

While Edgar was making these discoveries, Scriabin was talking but not looking at him.

"And you're worried about Johnny and no, you don't have to say it because we both know it's true, so let's dispense with the formalities. You know, giving away control of your own mental world leaves you open to some rather embarrassing situations."

Scriabin turned and raised an eyebrow at Edgar, who was clearly not very happy. "You see? No good can ever come of absolving yourself of responsibility."

With a few more gestures, a leash appeared in Scriabin's hand with a metal clasp. At the sight of it, Edgar could feel every fiber in his being react, but bound as he was there was little he could do.

He did not want that on him.

But that didn't really matter, did it?

With no hesitation or fear of Edgar's potential resistance, Scriabin simply fastened the leash onto the collar.

And Edgar didn't do anything.

"Of course, if you don't like it, feel free to stop me." The sadistic joy was gone from Scriabin's voice. Instead, this was a challenge, albeit delivered in a rather monotone fashion.

His face was burning and God he hated that. "This is insulting and degrading to both of us. Let me go."

_Why is he doing this to me_  
  
Scriabin did not respond verbally. Instead, he wrapped the leash around his fist and tugged on it sharply, causing Edgar to nearly fall forward. He kept the line taut as Edgar tried to fight against it.

"Scriabin..."

Inexorably, Scriabin dragged Edgar to the ground using the leash. He stared at him with utter distaste and disappointment as Edgar struggled to break free and failed. Unable to do anything, Edgar was forced to kneel in front of Scriabin, the tight grip on the binding forcing him to look up to his own figment.

With a measure of frustration, Scriabin spoke down to Edgar.

"You get down on your knees. I'm dominating you. I _own_ you, Edgar. Your actions are mine, ordained by my logic. I control your emotion. I control your thought. You're below me. You've always been below me and if you've ever had the _balls_ to fight for yourself or your dignity, _get up_. Make these bindings disappear and believe in yourself. Find your _god damn_ spine."

_So this has a point._  
  
Edgar shut his eyes and tried as hard as he could to make the bindings disappear. To undo the clasps and locks, untie the knots, and make them go away. Make it all go away. He focused as hard as he could.

And when he opened his eyes, he was still bound. Only this time a new tightness had formed around his chest. When he looked upwards, he found that a series of whitish ropes now ascended from his back, stretching into the white like some strange empty wings. The ropes tied themselves around his chest and arms, tightening with each breath.

Scriabin looked at the new bindings without surprise.

"I suppose that answers my question then. Pathetic."

He had tried, he had really really tried and somehow, all he had done is get himself more tied up. Why? He could not think of an answer. Everything had been focused on getting rid of these bindings, not creating more of them.

He had asked Scriabin for advice since he had first heard his voice. Without thought, that was what Edgar did now.

His voice was soft and confused. "What's happening to me..."

He didn't expect sympathy.

"My goodness, Edgar, surely this blatant and rather unsubtle symbolism isn't lost on you, is it? Do I have to explain this as well? You must at least be able to understand the wing-like structure those bindings took."

_Why did I say anything I don't want to hear this shut up_  
  
The tightness around his chest was growing in intensity and he felt heavy. He could feel himself growing heavier and he realized that more and more chains were forming around his limbs, tying him down.

Scriabin stood lazily, reaching out for a stray rope that was hanging near him. With a single pull, Edgar was lifted off whatever floor this place had, suspended by the ropes that now not only expanded from his back, but from the collar and from the bindings around his legs as well. Now he was truly and completely helpless, incapable of moving at all.

Scriabin's normally sarcastic voice now had a definite vicious edge. "You're trying to break free so I won't tell you anymore, aren't you?"

The clink of chains as they continued to wrap around his legs.

"You're getting more and more restrained as you give me more and more control. Your attempts at freedom only equal more control because you shouldn't be _trying_ to escape from me. You hate me so much and yet you give me so much power."

In the depths of his confusion and hatred, Edgar resorted to his most primal defense mechanism.

"Scriabin, this is all a lie. I didn't do this to myself, you did it to me. You're trying to trick me into dropping my defenses and admitting that I need or give power to you when I don't. These bindings are your idea and your fault, not mine. This dream isn't under my control, it's under yours. If I could break free, I would have already. Obviously, I cannot break away because this dream is really not my creation, as you have claimed. For all you statements of this world being under my control, obviously it isn't. It's your world that you're using to convince me that I'm weak and I'm not weak. I have no reason to believe anything you say."

Scriabin walked up to him and rested a hand on his shoulder, placing a finger on Edgar's lips.

"Shut up."

The hands moved upwards to cup Edgar's face, forcing eye contact with Scriabin. While before Johnny's eyes reflected Scriabin's presence, now they reverted to their familiar haunted look. With that change came the instinctual fear of Johnny, particularly considering the position Edgar was currently in.

His expression changed to that soft reverent one that Edgar had seen at that movie theater. The one that had shown him that Johnny was capable of emotion. Capable of being human. The one that had punched a huge hole into his method and beliefs around Johnny, had forced him to reconsider-

"Oh Edgar..."

_Oh God NO not the voice again not the voice oh God please no_  
  
With perfect intonation, Scriabin spoke. The thorns dug into his words and into Edgar's mind, searing it with the flawless record of Johnny's speech.

_This isn't Johnny this isn't Johnny this isn't Johnny it might sound like him but it's not him oh God it isn't him_  
  
"Edgar, you're the kindest person I've ever met." With perfect sincerity as Scriabin gently ran his hand across Edgar's face, a thin fingertip brushing across the scar beneath Edgar's eyes.

God, the mental pain this caused Edgar was almost enough to make him scream. The sound of his voice, the body, everything. It was like his dreams. It was like a dream.

Fear. His body was flooded with fear. Nothing but fear. His thought processes sped, desperately forming escape plan after escape plan and then abandoning them before they got past the halfway point. His entire body shuddered and he could feel his stomach clenching along with most of his muscles, all desperately trying to escape the bindings that were at current fulfilling their purpose all too well. The familiar sense of nausea came along with the terror, as if somehow vomiting could possibly help him in a horrifying situation such as this. He couldn't blame that entirely on the fear though, he had felt sick ever since he had showed up here.

The movement the bindings allowed him were jerky and quick, tests of the strength of his restraints even though he was well aware they would not give. He knew that the straps around his wrists were far stronger than the force he could exert that his current leverage would allow, but he kept incessantly testing them despite the futility of each effort. Perhaps the memory of each failed attempt was perpetually erased from Edgar's mind as he tried to focus on anything other than the horror in front of him. Perhaps this was all just another of Edgar's desperate attempts to gain control, through classification and measurements of how far he could test a rope before he could go no further, of a situation that had already spiraled far out of his grasp. At this point Edgar was in no position to argue one way or another. His personal opinion of his motivation was just slightly colored.

That and he was far too frightened for true rational thought.

"I admire you and you give me strength."

_God stop it STOP IT_  
  
"SHUT UP!" Edgar finally managed to speak, his voice tremulous and high. He tried to turn his face away from Johnny- Scriabin but the hands on his face prevented him, their bones digging into him, forcing him to still stare at him. Forcing him to look at this living lie. Forcing him to look at

_I won't look at it no I won't I won't this is a lie it's a lie it's a lie it has to be a lie because he would never say that he can't say that and he wouldn't say that this can't be real._  
  
Edgar couldn't look away. Scriabin's expression was sincere and contrite. He mimicked Johnny's voice so perfectly, so painfully. He looked at Edgar with adoration that was so wrong.

"STOP IT! STOP IT!" Edgar screamed as if there was anyone present could help him.

Scriabin moved closer to him and ran one of his hands up into Edgar's hair, entangling itself in the short strands. He felt his entire scalp tingle at the contact and his face burned horribly. He felt as if his scars were bleeding again. He felt as if he were breaking apart. The ropes around his chest only tightened. They grew tighter and he was losing feeling to his legs, losing feeling to everything.

_You can handle this this is all a dream it isn't happening you can handle this Edgar you've done it before you've done it before you can do it again just calm down just calm down you have to calm down you have to calm down you have to calm down and _

_Detach_

"I need you." Scriabin looked at Edgar and he sounded so sincere. He sounded so sincere that Edgar wanted to punch him in the face.

"JUST SHUT UP!"

Nothing he said made a difference. Nothing he said did anything. It was as if Scriabin were replaying a memory, replaying a fantasy or a dream with pre-planned lines and roles. He ran Edgar's hair through his hand as he got closer to him, ran his hand across his collarbone, along the edge of his shirt. He caressed his neck with such care that it was impossible. This wasn't Scriabin that he knew, this wasn't anything, wasn't anything real. How could someone who hated him so much be so careful, put on such a perfect show of adoration...

"You're such a good person." Such love and devotion.

He couldn't detach.

He was trying and he couldn't. He couldn't detach anymore. He could feel every movement that Scriabin was making, each shift of his fingers across his skin, he could feel the trails that he left as he traced his way up Edgar's face, running a soft finger across his scars. The gentleness of this action caused Edgar's entire face to twitch.

The thorns in his speech were softening to the special tone that Edgar had only heard Johnny use with him. That tone that was reserved for him. That softer, gentler tone because Johnny accepted him as an equal.

_What if Johnny's trying to make you Devi? _

_What if Johnny loves you, Edgar_

_What if Johnny loves you, Edgar_

_What if, Edgar, what if_

"I would never hurt you."

And even the sense of regret came through his words, that promise that Johnny would not hurt him again. That sick twisted sense of sorrow that he could hear whenever Johnny tried to apologize but couldn't because his pride or dementia prevented him. And now there was nothing. There was nothing preventing what he had always hoped he would say. What he had never hoped he would say. What he would never say. Pure wrong escaping from Johnny's lips.

He could not detach. He could not detach. He was trying. All he could do was repeat one word to himself over and over and over again through panicked and tumultuous thoughts.

_No no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no nnno no no_  
  
Scriabin leaned in closer. His nails scraped against Edgar's scalp as his fingers tightened around his hair and his other hand began to explore down Edgar's back. His face was getting closer, close enough so that when he spoke, Edgar could feel his breath. Close enough that Edgar felt the urge to close his eyes and he could not say why.

He could not stop shaking.

His face burned so that he was sure that Scriabin could feel the heat emanating from his skin. He could feel something making its way down his face, leaving twin cooling trails.

_Oh god please stop please stop I don't want to do this I don't want to hear this I don't want to hear this I don't want to do this or feel this or see this or hear this or feel this I don't want this please stop please stop I'm begging you I'm begging you please let me go please stop please I'll do anything just don't do this to me anymore just stop doing this_  
  
"You've fixed me, Edgar." Johnny...Scriabin said softly. Edgar wanted to break free. He tried to move his arms but they refused to listen. He could not move his body. There was such an overflow of emotion at the moment it was a miracle that he could think clearly at all.

_I want you to fix me. I want you to fix me. I think you can fix me. You're not like the others. You're not like the others. I've grown somewhat fond of you. I like you. Thank you. Thank you. You're not like the others. I want you to fix me. I want you to fix me. You'll be beautiful. You'll be beautiful just like the others. You'll understand. You always understand me._  
  
"I want to spend the rest of my life with you."

_I don't hear the voices when I'm here. They're too far away. I don't hear things now. I don't hear things when I'm here. I don't hear things. It's safe here. It's safe here. I can feel safe here. I can think here. Your house is quiet. It's very quiet. I want you to fix me. I think you can fix me. I trust you. I trust you to fix me. I trust you to fix me._  
  
"I love you so much, Edgar..."

_I'm going to kill you, Edgar._  
  
"No..." Edgar whimpered. "Please..."

With the slowness of someone who knows their prey can't escape, Scriabin closed in. And just as he expected, Edgar did not even move. He did not even try to resist. He had tried everything in his mental arsenal to defend himself. Everything had failed. Everything. Now he was defenseless, bound in leather straps and ropes of his own creation. Without even the motivation to move. He did not try to resist because at this point, he found that resistance was futile.

He could not resist. A pervasive web of probability that couldn't be brushed aside.

The fingers in his hair clenched tightly, causing sharp pain that Edgar barely registered. The hand that had been moving in slow circles around the ropes of his back now took hold of his shoulders, dragging him forward. Why not. Johnny was forceful and direct in everything he did. Why not this.

He had tried everything. He had tried everything and nothing worked. He had nothing now. He could not detach. He was present when Scriabin kissed him. He was there and he did not even try to pretend it wasn't happening. He didn't try to rationalize it, understand what it meant, explain it away as metaphysically as possible. He didn't try to ignore the sharp pain from his tense grip, the pressure on his shoulder as Scriabin pulled him in tightly. He didn't ignore the sensation of Scriabin forcing his lips open and did not even try to stop him.

There was no point.

There was no point anymore.

He could not deny anything anymore. He could not stop him. He had no power.

No power.

He had never had power in his relationship with him ever. Why now.

Teeth closed on his lip with sickening confidence and he tasted pennies. Even in the face of this sudden sharp pain, of this sudden stabbing hurt accompanied by the uncomfortable sensation of loose, now-dead skin hanging from his wounded lip, he could not muster the energy to even react physically. His jaw remained slack and, discounting the initial instinctive jerk the bite had illicited, he did not move. His tongue did not move even as it was felt by Johnny's, even as the growing blood began to swell around his taste buds which did not improve his previous nausea. He didn't move at all. The pain dulled to a throbbing ache. Still, he did not move. Johnny did not notice. After all, it wasn't as if Johnny was trying to get Edgar to participate in the kiss.

He knew better.

Edgar had always been passive. Everything he had ever done was passive.

He could not rationalize this away. Make the copper fade. Every thought and reminder that this was merely a dream that Scriabin was controlling, mere thought manipulation was gone. Constricting strings of touch and voice.

He was going to accept this.

He already had accepted this.

His entire life was acceptance.

_I'm not scared of death. _

_A heaven for me, and a hell for you._

_I have nothing to fear._

And he was right.

This wasn't fear. Not right now.

When Scriabin broke away, the adoring look he had imitated was gone. Instead he looked disappointed and disgusted. Normal. He ran a hand across his lips, a faint trail of pink marking a skeletal hand. He stared at Edgar as if he had failed some test.

And he had failed.

Edgar desperately tried to reconcile what had happened, tried to piece everything back together into some kind of logical whole that was anything except what had just happened but it all kept crashing down on him, crashing down.

That would be what it would have felt like. Scriabin had imitated Johnny perfectly, even how Johnny would go about biting Edgar if he decided to do so. That would be what it felt like.

_They were so in love and I loved them so much. And now I can look back on them and they're still so beautiful. Someday, when I look back on Edgar, it will be just as beautiful._

_No...no, I don't hate you._

_It's not supposed to be a bad thing. I like you, you know._

_You...you don't want me to hate you...?_

_God no...no no no no..._

_Nny...I wouldn't...hate you. I don't hate you now._

_Listen to me. I am going to _hurt_ you. And when the time comes, I am going to _kill_ you._

_I want to fix you._

_I want you dead._

_Don't you get it! Don't you understand? That's all I have left!_

_I wish I knew something...anything... _

_I devoted precious time to it..._

_I'd rather not die..._

_Edgar..._

"God..." The first word that Edgar could finally say. Tightening. He couldn't breathe. "God I...I..."

_If a man also lie with mankind as he lieth with a woman,_  
  
"I..."

_both of them have committed an abomination;_  
  
"I c-can't..."

_they should surely be put to death. _

"I..."

_A heaven for me, and a hell for you._

_A heaven for me, and a hell for you._

_Heaven for me, Hell for you._

_Heaven for me, Hell for you._

_Heaven_

He shut his eyes. He couldn't. It was the last thing that he had left.

It was the only thing he had left.

"I c-can't, I...you...s-so...so much i-it...it hurts..."

And it loosened.

The ropes, the wires, the straps, everything that had wrapped around him began to dissolve, began to fade away and fall to strips, fall apart.

And he slowly fell to the white, slowly and without emotion.

Scriabin knelt beside him and stared at the remnants of empty wings.

"And it all comes tumbling down."

_I can't. I can't. It's my life. It's all that I have. It's my life. It's mine. I can't let it be taken away. I can't let myself do this. I can't let myself...I can't let Scriabin do this to me. I can't let him take away the one thing that gives my life meaning. I can't let him do this. I won't let him do this. _

_I'm so broken. I'm broken. I want someone to turn me off and fix me._

_I want to fix you._

_I can't let myself do this. I can't do this. I can't. I won't. I can't._

Edgar felt deeply sick, more so from the overwhelming amount of emotion that had crashed on him than anything else, and now he was huddled in a miserable ball, staring vacantly into space as he tried to get himself under control.

_I _am_ under control. _

The copper taste was fading. The annoying sensation of loose dead skin remained.

"Weep and wail, sob and shiver. It's okay, my boy." A smile. "After all, there's no one here but us. There's no need to hide your feelings, no need to conform to that standard of the emotionally withdrawn male. In fact, there is no way to hide your feelings, considering. So feel free to burst into tears at any time."

Edgar ignored him.

This didn't seem to bother Scriabin too much. He leaned over and picked up the scraps of a white rope between his fingers. He studied it as he spoke, his voice bored even as he smashed through any of Edgar's desperate attempts to rebuild. "You really do love this Johnny boy, or at least, what you wish he was."

_No I don't. That's not true._  
  
Anger.

Scriabin let the piece of rope fall. "Here I am, Edgar. Here's what you wish Johnny was and what Johnny's trying to be, and you're having a nervous breakdown. It's pathetic."

_That's not what I want. _

_This isn't what I want._

_This isn't what he wants._

"You're not Johnny."

It was not often that he sounded so surprised. "Excuse me?"

Edgar stared at Scriabin, trying to see behind those ringed and tired eyes to see his mental tormentor. His voice was even and emotionless. "You're not Johnny. You claim that I reject perfection as if you were perfect. As if this is somehow my fault that your 'perfection' nearly gave me a heart attack. But you're wrong. This isn't my fault. It's not my fault because you're not Johnny, in whatever form you take. You're not what I wish Johnny was and you can never be what I wish he was. You don't know what I wish he was. You know nothing about me if this is as close as you can get to the truth. If this is what you think is my perfection, then you're wrong. You're wrong. You can't turn this back on me. You can't claim this is my fault. It only reflects badly on you, Scriabin. It only shows that you had to resort to such desperate measures as to create a false Johnny to force confessions that aren't true. Another failed attempt to make what you claim to be me a reality."

Scriabin sat quietly through this. When Edgar finished, Scriabin simply stared at him.

It took a while before Scriabin apparently either formulated his response or managed to get over what Edgar had just said.

"Now wait a minute." Scriabin put a thin hand on his chest. "Are you saying that _I_ made this all up? That _I_ manipulated your mouth and used my _marvelous_ powers of ventriloquism to _make_ you say that you loved Johnny?"

_I didn't say that. I'd never say that._  
  
"You know what you did." Edgar rubbed at his face roughly, sure that his scars were bleeding. If they weren't before, they certainly were now. He rubbed at his lips for a moment with intentional disgust. The back of his hand came back clean.

Scriabin took on an air of offended dignity that sounded almost in-character for Johnny, which gave Edgar another surge of nausea. "Oh _that's_ right, this was all _my_ doing. _I_ created this form, this voice, I created myself and your masochism, I made those straps and your tears and your confession, _I_ made you do everything. It's all _my_ fault. For god's sake, Edgar, do you ever take responsibility for yourself? Your actions? You can't foist your teary, Harlequin Romance Novel confession of your undying love for an emotionally crippled serial killer on _me_."

Edgar adjusted his glasses.

_I didn't say that. I didn't say that._  
  
"Go back to normal, Scriabin."

Annoyed, Scriabin just rolled his eyes. "Fine, whatever."

And before Edgar could even register the change, Scriabin was back to his original form. Despite the fact that seeing this living version of his toy made Edgar feel sick, it was better than the alternative.

"Feel better?"

Edgar crossed his arms, taking a deep breath to prepare himself for a speech and also to try and calm his stomach. "Scriabin, listen to me. I'm not going to let you manipulate me anymore. The fact that you had to use visual and auditory cues to force a false 'confession' out of me, which you didn't, only shows your inability to do whatever it is you're supposed to be doing. You're the one who's failing, not me. You're desperate."

As Edgar stood up, Scriabin tilted his head to follow the motion. It was hard to read his exact emotion with his eyes hidden. "Turning this back on me again? I'm afraid I'm not the one at fault here."

"Yes you are." Edgar stood and looked down at Scriabin who stared up at him without saying a word. "You've said it more times than I can count."

There was a moment of silence before Edgar held out his hand to him. Scriabin stared at it.

"You are me."

There was another moment of silence.

Scriabin slowly reached out and took Edgar's hand. As Edgar began to pull him upwards to lift him to his feet, he found himself speaking with a strange lack of emotion.

"You say that I'm a masochist, in love with a demon who's bent on my destruction. You talk about me absolving responsibility for my actions. For my 'relationship.' About trapping myself in lies, devoting myself to falsehoods, trapped in a downward spiral of learned helplessness to my inevitable destruction."

As Scriabin opened his mouth to make some kind of sarcastic comment, Edgar cut him off.

"Scriabin, you've told me countless times that I am you. Now that we're here, there's nothing that you could want less. Now for some reason you are intent on differentiating yourself from me. It's not _our_ fault I forgot a book or something of that nature, it's mine. It's not _our_ fault I act 'stupidly,' it's mine. It's not _our_ fault that we're trapped in this mess, it's mine. _We're_ not in love with-"

Scriabin made a very strange noise at this point which stopped Edgar for a few precious seconds, but he recovered before Scriabin could break into the conversation.

"_We're_ not in love with Johnny." Edgar repeated. This time, Scriabin kept silent. Something about him was tense though. "I am. _We're_ not masochistic, I am. Do you see my point? For all your talk about how you are me, about how I created you, about how you're part of me, you certainly don't want to take responsibility for my...or rather, _our_ faults."

Scriabin stared up at him for a few minutes in silence before speaking in a voice laden with condescending sarcasm and hatred. "I'm you."

Scriabin yanked Edgar's arm down so sharply that Edgar almost toppled over. Instead, he came face to face with Scriabin who hissed at him in a very angry and spiteful way. "You listen to me, I am _not_ you. I'm not _this_ you, anyway. I'm not a pathetic needy shell of a man who is prone to self-destruction as a method of validating my existence. I recognize and avoid danger. I am what you should be. I am what you were. When you got your frontal lobotomy, courtesy Nny, I am what you lost."

"No you're not."

Edgar pulled his arm back hard, this time dragging Scriabin up with him. The two stood and stared at each other.

Scriabin smiled in an irritating way. His voice was pure hate. "Oh that's right, I'm not. I'm sorry, I must have been confused."

"You're lying to me. You've always lied to me."

"What? Do you want an apology?" Scriabin asked. Edgar narrowed his eyes and assumed that Scriabin did the same, although he could not tell. "What do you want me to say, Edgar?" He pronounced his name in a strange way. "What is it that you'd like me to say to erase everything that just happened? What would you like me to act like? What do you want me to be?"

"I don't want you at all." Edgar matched his hate. Scriabin tore his hand from Edgar's grip, holding it to his chest as he rubbed it without thought.

Scriabin's voice was quiet and emotionless. "Then tell me, Edgar, what is it that you want?"

He answered quickly and without thought. "Not you."

"No, I'm being quite serious here, Edgar." Scriabin spoke as slowly as possible. "What is it that you want? If what you said before is true," Scriabin turned to one side and crossed his arms, mocking his previous tone, "And after all, you've always lied to _me_, if that version of Johnny is not what you want, then what is it?"

Edgar crossed his arms and looked at his feet.

Scriabin leaned towards him, confident in having found a question that Edgar could not easily answer. He sneered at him. "What is it that you want, Edgar? If you don't want me, why did you make me?"

"I didn't make you." Edgar gritted through clenched teeth.

"Of course you made me. But no, I'm curious. What is it that you want, Edgar? What is it? Because I'm looking back, rifling through all the old files and memories in your brain, and I'm looking for some goal, some kind of thing to strive for, something to keep living for, and what have I found?"

Edgar pressed a hand to his forehead. He knew that saying it out loud did as much good as saying it internally, so why waste the vocal power?

_I don't want to hear this. I don't want to hear this. I want you to die._  
  
"I've found _nothing_, Edgar." Scriabin had abandoned sarcasm, his voice instead now laden with intense vengeful hatred. "I've found absolutely nothing. You have no friends. You have no family. You have _absolutely nothing_. No one notices you. No one will ever notice you. You have accomplished nothing of any lasting importance in your entire life. You've never affected anyone for better or for worse. You wandered through life as a phantom, a pale imitation of what a person should be. You will be easily replaced because no one noticed you were there. Your life is _nothing_. Your entire life has just been a pantomime of what someone _visible_ might act like, put on for an audience that will never see or care. And when you die, Edgar, you will die alone. You will die completely and utterly alone and it'll take two weeks for them to find your body."

Edgar put his hands over his ears.

"And they won't want to waste time burying you. They won't waste the space that could be taken up by someone people would actually remember. Someone people actually care about. They won't give you a decent burial. They'll take you to a place where there's everlasting ever-burning hellfire that consumes your flesh and when you're ashes, they'll scatter you to the wind and no one will care, Edgar. No one will care."

He was trying hard to block him out but he could hear the voice inside his head.

"So tell me, Edgar, if you don't want a loving, supportive relationship with someone who respects your opinions, who finds you strong and mature and a good person, if you don't want a loving supportive relationship with the one person in your life who actually sees you, then what do you want? What do you want from Johnny, Edgar? Has this entire charade of a relationship just been an elaborate way of committing suicide without getting your own blood on your hands?"

_It's not the same..._  
  
"You're not Johnny. That wasn't him."

"You're so very astute." Scriabin's voice dripped venom. "But that's not my point, is it? My point is, is that what you want? My point, Edgar, is do you want to be happy? Do you want a happy, supportive relationship?"

"I don't want a lie." Edgar glared at him, struggling to ignore the implications of what he was saying. "I don't need a relationship and I don't need _you_ to pretend to give me one. I don't need you to lie to me. I have a relationship anyway, I have something that governs my whole life, something that makes-"

"Do you, Edgar? Think about it. It's one of the ten commandments if I recall. 'Thou shalt not kill'-"

"I never killed anyone-"

"But you wanted to." Scriabin stared at him as his voice mimicked Edgar's attempts to remove emotion. "Do you remember? Those two teenagers in the movie theater? Who, because they interrupted Johnny's precious sane time, made you want them tortured? You wanted them tortured and you wanted to watch."

"I didn't-...that was different-"

"Do you know what their names were, Edgar? Were you paying attention? Did you recognize her before you died? That girl who escaped? That was her, Edgar. Did you notice she was alone? Have you thought about what that means? That means that that other boy she was with is gone now. He's dead. And to think, perhaps you could have done something. You could have stopped someone's death. I would venture to say that is, if not exactly equal to, quite high on the 'thou shalt not kill' meter of evil."

"What was I supposed to do?" He had gone over this with Scriabin before. He remembered, he remembered arguing and getting nowhere. Before he even had a name. "Could I have saved them? Did I have the power, at that point, to stop Nny from doing whatever he wanted? Did I?"

"Why are you asking me?" Scriabin cocked his head at him. "Why didn't you check?"

"Because..."

"If you say it's because he would have killed you, I would have to disagree. If you feared death so much, you would not have gone this far. You would not have _accepted_ the fact that Johnny plans to kill you. That he _will_ kill you, when he feels the time is right. You didn't want to stop Johnny because you wanted those two to suffer."

"I didn't-"

"And in the end, one of them died. And that's one of the commandments. Which reminds me, I had almost forgotten about it before you thoughtfully mentioned it during the sparkly bubbles and rose petals, but I believe there's a verse in Leviticus..."

_If a man also lie with mankind as he lieth with a woman-_  
  
"I don't- I don't do- I don't do things like that. I don't do that."

"Do what?" Scriabin smiled. "Since I know as well as you do that you have not had any kind of contact with Nny that could even, at the most generous, resemble any kind of sex, then why such a reaction? Or do you interpret it a bit more vaguely? Apply it a bit further? I know, Edgar. That your version doesn't just end with 'lie with mankind as with a woman,' that your concern and mild panic attack do not just apply to the non-sex you and Nny constantly have. No. You've expanded it, Edgar, to that word you avoid as though following that male stereotype I mentioned before. Altered the translation just slightly, but just enough. 'If a man also _loveth_ a man as he loveth a woman,' or something along those lines. You're better at this bible-talk than I."

Silence.

Scriabin finally shook his head. "It's the dreaded L-word, Edgar, as much as it pains me to call it that. You didn't say a single word and you act as if that's all that matters. As if not saying that word negates everything. As if the word is all that matters."

"No. I don't. Not with...not with anyone. Anyone except...well, certainly not- you can't make me say that I do, no matter what you try. You can't make me say anything. Everything you make me say is a lie."

"Then what am I, Edgar?" Scriabin held out his arms. "What does that make me?"

"I don't know! I don't care!" Edgar rubbed at his forehead as it began to throb. "I just don't want to talk about this anymore."

"What is it that you want, Edgar?"

_Wish I knew something...anything...  
_  
_I don't want to die. I'd rather not die._  
  
Scriabin laughed softly.

"If you don't want me, if you don't want Johnny, if you don't want happiness, if you don't want death, what is it? What is it that you want? Is it Heaven? Because if it is, I'm afraid you're a little too dirty to go there now."

"No, I'm not."

"Here." Scriabin waved his hands over himself again and took the form of Johnny without missing a beat. Edgar again felt the choking surprise and nausea that came with the imitation but refused to show any such thing outwardly. "Tell me, is this what you want?"

"No."

"You do make this so difficult." Scriabin's hatred had diminished along the course of the conversation and his sarcastic lilt was back. He moved in front of Edgar, making sure he had his attention. "All right then, how about this?"

And with the blink of an eye, Scriabin had become a woman. Albeit, a feminine version of Johnny, but nonetheless a woman. The hair remained the same length, but the body shape changed without any kind of effort.

"This would clear up that nasty Leviticus business, wouldn't it?"

"No!" Edgar closed his eyes in disgust, pressing on his forehead in an effort to get the pain to stop. He was trying very hard not to think about what he was offering. "It doesn't change anything. That's not the issue."

"Oh? Then what is?" Scriabin reverted back to his original form. "What is it? What is it that you want? Johnny to be sane? You said that once. You said you wanted Johnny to be happy."

He did say that.

"Yes, but I didn't mean..."

"What? Now you don't want Johnny to be happy? Isn't that why you invited him over?"

"God, look, this is pointless! It's not important! I don't want to talk about it anymore!"

"Or would you just prefer that Johnny be happy without your input? Without your sacrifice? Would it make you happy to know that Devi will make Johnny happy someday?"

Edgar moved his hands so he could stare at Scriabin.

"I'm sorry, what?"

Scriabin smiled at him. "Oh, did I not mention that? Sure. Eventually someday, Devi and Johnny will be happy. She'll fix him, you know. They'll get married. Have kids. The whole deal."

"Oh..." Edgar really had no idea what to think of that. He had never really considered Johnny restarting a relationship with Devi, considering how disastrously it had ended last time, and-

"Ah! I heard that." Scriabin laughed in a cruel way. "You tried to cut it off, but yes. I can hear everything, you know. You thought you were important to him. Is that what you wanted, Edgar? Is that it? You wanted to make a difference?"

_No..._  
  
"I guess that's the wish of every invisible man. You wanted to fix him, didn't you? Did you want to make him happy, Edgar? That's what you said, isn't it?"

"That's not what I meant-"

"So you'll only go so far then. How important is Johnny's happiness to you, in the long run? I recall before that you put it ahead of your own, because since his is more rare, it was more valid. And if I recall, there was some mention of how Johnny really feels things, rather than pretend like some people I could mention."

"I didn't mean-"

"Tell me, Edgar." Scriabin waited for a moment, as if giving Edgar room to defend himself. Silence. "You were willing to give your own life for Johnny's happiness earlier. He said he would kill you and you said you would understand. Isn't that the ultimate sacrifice that a person could make? So why is it so abhorrent to you to allow him to love you?"

"Because he doesn't, that's why."

"Well, let's play along then and just say that I'm mistaken. I'm sure that can happen." His tone clearly indicated he thought no such thing. "But play pretend with me here. What if, to make Johnny truly happy, Edgar, he had to love you? What if that fixed him? What if the heavens opened, the earth sang, and little woodland animals came and frolicked around him because hallelujah, the love of a good man is all a person needs these days to cure schizophrenia? What would you do, Edgar? I mean...I ask you this in all honesty. If it made him happy, how far would you go?"

"It's not a relevant question because he doesn't love me." Edgar refused to even consider the possibility. "He's...well, his understanding of love isn't like other people's, it's different. And whatever it is, he doesn't love me. He can't. I've done-"

"Oh, you've done plenty for him, I'm afraid. And the real irony is, it's all because you've done nothing. He vents, you listen. And you do what he wants. You're one thing in his life that he can control. I'm afraid you do a lot more for him than you know. You give him stability. You gave him a coat."

"Regardless, I hardly think-"

"Well, how would you define that love then? He did seem rather pleased to see you near the end, despite his screaming fit beforehand. What is Johnny's love, Edgar? I think we know the answer from Devi. It's death. And what has he promised to do to you? He promised to kill you."

"That's not...the same it's something entirely different in that case-"

"No, it isn't." Scriabin's tone made Edgar fall silent. "He wanted you to be perfect and beautiful. Just like the others. He wanted you to be perfect and beautiful. Like Devi never was. He loved the others so much and they loved him back. Perfectly and beautifully and Edgar, he wants to love you the same way. He wants to love you and have you love him back, perfectly and beautifully. That is precisely what he said, in words and in print. The question is, what are you going to do about it?"

"That's not the same thing, he wanted me as a friend, I know he...must have just...wanted a perfect friend...not a..." Edgar trailed off at Scriabin's expression.

"It _is_ the same."

Edgar closed his eyes. "I don't want to talk about this anymore. He just doesn't...we can argue in circles all we like, but there's no point. I don't know what you want me to do. What do you want to accomplish?"

"Me?" Scriabin put a hand on his chest as if he had been offended. "I've been trying to keep you alive, you twit. I've been trying to make you grow a spine and realize that this isn't healthy."

Edgar held out his arms wide and stared at him. "Why do you care?"

Scriabin opened his mouth as if to say something, then ended up saying nothing at all.

"I want to go home."

As if Edgar's speech had jarred him back into motion, Scriabin spoke quickly and without pause. "Well, obviously because I want you to become sane and also to keep you alive..."

Edgar gave him an odd look. "Why did you hesitate if it was obvious?"

Scriabin suddenly became very interested in the white around him, turning away from Edgar and putting his hands in his pockets. "Since I do reside in your mind, it's in my best interests to keep you alive."

"You're not telling me everything, are you?"

Scriabin turned back towards him with a very monotone, "Duh."

Edgar put a hand to his forehead. "If you're a voice in my head and I created you, if I provide the place where you live, then why don't I have any control over you?"

Scriabin began laughing rather hard at that.

"It's not funny!"

Scriabin tried to catch his breath. "I'm sorry, it's just this is coming from a guy who was in psycho-sexual bondage a few minutes ago."

Edgar glared at him. "That wasn't my fault."

Scriabin held out his hands dramatically. "Yes, I tied you up because _I'm_ a sick pervert, that's right."

Edgar sighed and rubbed at his forehead. His head throbbed. "How long are we stuck here?"

Scriabin hummed for a few seconds then shrugged. "It's really up to me."

"Can we go now, then? This is really getting old." Patience was indeed wearing very thin.

Scriabin held out his hands again. "Well, what have we learned? So far, that you're codependent, masochistic, a hypocrite, and have terrible taste in men."

Edgar took off his glasses, not even completely comprehending what Scriabin was saying anymore. He was exhausted. "Yes, I'm flawed. Oh no. The horror. Can we end it now?"

Scriabin put his hands back in his pockets. "Well, since you don't seem to have accepted anything I taught you-"

"Assuming you taught me anything to begin with."

"Perhaps we should continue this some other time when you're more receptive."

And much in the fashion of when they had first come here, Scriabin reached out and grabbed Edgar's chin, forcing them to meet eyes.

"Would you like anything before I go, dear boy? A board game? A portable electronic device? Little curly angel wings so you can fly about in a clearly impossible fashion? After all, I have only your well-being at heart."

Edgar brushed Scriabin's hand away from his face. "Just stop touching me and go."

Scriabin smiled in a strange way. "All right, if you say so. But keep in mind, if I do go, I won't be coming back. I have to think."

Edgar narrowed his eyes.

"Well, I hope you'll excuse me for _not caring_."

Scriabin slowly faded from view.

"I don't mind." His voice came from somewhere, but not inside Edgar's head for once. "After all, you don't get lonely, right? You'll be fine all by yourself."

Edgar looked around at the white surrounding him on all sides.

_"I'm fine all by myself."_  
  
And with that, he couldn't hear him anymore.


	14. Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I recommend "Rain of Brass Petals -Three Voices Edit-" from Silent Hill 3 as listening music for this chapter. It had a huge influence on this.

The only option that Edgar really saw was to walk. He wasn't sure if he was walking in any compass direction because of the solid color, but he chose a direction and just walked. He hoped he wasn't going in circles, although it didn't feel that way.

True to his word, Scriabin had been silent. Edgar did not believe for a moment that he had left, permanently or temporarily, and he knew he was just waiting for an opportunity to attack him again. Considering the emotional stress Edgar had gone through not too long ago, he tried to keep his thoughts on safe topics, not wanting to prompt Scriabin anymore than he had to.

Scriabin did not speak, not even when Edgar slipped and thought something particularly revealing, and after a while he was beginning to find it kind of odd. He wasn't sure what the voice in his head was up to.

He wished he had worn a watch.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed before the white finally began to change and alter. The appearance of a horizon, even if it was a huge distance away, was a great relief. Finally some perspective and some confirmation that he was going the right way.

As he drew closer to the horizon line, he noticed that the white was beginning to fade. Tinges of dust now covered the ground that he could now determine and the sky was beginning to slowly change into a very pale blue. As he walked further the color deepened until it resembled its more normal hue, dotted with occasional puffy white clouds. The ground beneath his feet began to change to a dark brown, and a few strands of grass poked upwards. After a while he began to forget the incredibly disorienting all-white void in favor of this new area. He never appreciated the ground and the sky as much as he did now, along with his well-missed sense of depth perception.

A path wound its way through sickly yellow and light green grass patches, a few straggling and dying flowers drooping near the ground. He noticed with curiosity that there were a few remnants of humanity here now; discarded magazines and soda cans.

"Where am I...?" Edgar normally would have chided himself for speaking aloud, but at the moment he saw no harm to it.

No mental response. Even such a harmless question would have prompted some scathing remark. Although Edgar wished Scriabin would leave, he could not truly believe that the figment had done so. Still waiting then.

As he walked, he felt something dripping down his face. Curious, he trailed his fingers downwards from his forehead. With something of a gasp, he found that his nose was crushed, no doubt the source of the blood running down his chin. Along with the discovery of the blood came an insistent, throbbing pain.

The remnants of his fight, if one could call it that, with Krik. His broken nose hadn't been present while talking with Scriabin...was that entire thing truly all in his head? Then where had he been walking?

This was all too confusing.

Edgar could make out a large sign ahead. The garbage that littered the ground had now increased in number and the entire place seemed to be falling into more disrepair as he walked.

A strange creature zipped past the edge of his vision, but vanished before Edgar could make out what it was.

Finally the words were legible.

  
**THIS IS  
HEAVEN  
** YOU CAN STOP PRAYING NOW   


Edgar stood beneath the sign and stared at for a few minutes before he could think of any way to react.

"So...I really am dead then."

His reaction to this information was mainly constrained to mild surprise and disappointment. He really hadn't wanted to die, but then again, it wasn't like he had a great deal to live for anyway.

The place was still filthy. Despite this, Edgar felt inclined to believe this was the true afterlife. Besides, if this was Heaven, it wasn't as if Edgar was entirely opposed to going there.

Not to far from the sign was a small ticket booth with a large sign that read "Administration" across its top, with smaller writing scattered across it including "We sell churros, too," "Welcome," and "wipe your feet." As he watched, a gaunt man with large glasses and thin stringy hair slowly straightened from behind the booth, rubbing at his mouth and still looking incredibly disgusted at something. By the way he was acting, Edgar guessed that something had been so disturbing that he had been driven to vomiting, although that also did not do much for Edgar's opinion of this strange version of Heaven.

In accordance with the small sign, Edgar did wipe his feet slightly as he approached. Apparently under control after his brief bout of nausea, the man watched him without any kind of expression.

"Um...hello." Edgar felt incredibly awkward. This was not how he expected Heaven to be like by any stretch of the imagination. "I'm Edgar Var-"

"We know."

"Oh. Oh, um, of course you would. Are you...um...Saint Peter?" Edgar couldn't think of anyone else the man could be, if any religious tracts were true in this bizarre place.

The man just stared at him and did not respond.

Uncomfortable moments passed and Edgar rubbed the back of his head self-consciously, guessing his question would go unanswered. "Is this...really Heaven?"

The man flipped through the book in front of him.

"You seem like the type to know."

A rather vague, ambiguous answer. Edgar wasn't quite sure what to make of it.

"You're an angel, right?"

The man did not respond at once.

"Mr. Vargas?"

"Yes?"

"How...hmm." The man stared intently at the open page in front of him.

"Is something wrong?" Despite the fact that Edgar was potentially speaking to an angel, he did not feel that kind of awe that demands true respect. He planned his questions carefully, but not as carefully as he once thought he would.

"Have you been lost?" St. Peter, as Edgar decided he must be, stared at him intently. Surprised by the sudden interest, Edgar could only hold the eye contact a few moments before looking at the ground. He nudged a can with one foot before he looked back up.

"Lost?"

"Some get lost on their way here. Did this happen to you?" St. Peter repeated, as if Edgar was a simple child. Normally, Edgar may have been annoyed at such condescension, but the fact that he _was_ an angel _and_ Edgar had that strange encounter with Scriabin that he still couldn't explain, made this question something he did have to ponder.

"I'm..." Edgar didn't like having to say this. "I'm not exactly sure what you mean."

St. Peter stared at him for a few more seconds before rubbing his forehead with one thin hand. "How much clearer do I have to make it, boy? When you died, did you find your way here immediately or did you get lost?"

"Well, I..." Even if St. Peter already knew, which Edgar was pretty sure he did, he preferred to NOT get into details about that bizarre dream. "I...think I got sidetracked, but I'm not sure. I don't...well, I mean, I came here pretty quickly after I died though, really. Am I, uh, late?"

Another pause. "Yes. Mr. Vargas, you are late. As a matter of fact, you are months late. Where have you been all this time?"

"Months?" Edgar blinked at him. "I...I was supposed to die months ago?"

"You didn't?" The way he phrased the question made it seem more like an accusation.

"Well, I guess that...sidetrack I got...caught up on could have taken longer then I thought. I didn't...bring a watch with me." Edgar felt this was a lame excuse and he was sure the angel knew it. In response, St. Peter looked back down at his book.

"Well at least you finally got here, regardless of whether you're late or not."

"Could you..." Edgar faltered as the angel raised his eyes to stare at him. "I was...just wondering if you could help me with this...uh, broken nose business. It's...uncomfortable and I'd understand if you don't want to, but since you're an angel, I just thought I'd ask."

St. Peter tossed him a small bandage and then got back to his book. "It is something we can do."

"Hmm."

There was a silence as the angel pored over the single page in the book. The bleeding and most of the pain stopped immediately after applying the bandage. That was a relief at least.

Edgar felt more and more awkward as time went by, so he glanced around at his surroundings. Half-eaten food, crumpled wrappers, empty paper cups, and comic books all littering the ground. Everything seemed covered in a thin veneer of grease and slime. Edgar liked to consider himself a fairly clean person, so this was gradually getting on his nerves. He hoped that didn't mean anything.

"Edgar Vargas, correct?" After a few minutes.

"Yes." Edgar felt a twinge of nervousness that he chided himself for immediately afterwards. He shouldn't be doubting himself. Not now.

"Yes...here, in your file of acts..." St. Peter did not explain it any further than that. Edgar waited self-consciously, rubbing at one arm with a free hand. "Yes, you were supposed to be here some time ago. However you were..." The Angel raised a thin eyebrow at him. "However you were delayed, it has caused some minor filing errors."

"Oh." _What exactly does that mean?_

"But it seems, at least, until your intended death, this is where you were supposed to go." The angel did not sound impressed or particularly convinced of this information. "This minor glitch in the system should be fixed momentarily. I would suggest you get acquainted with the area here. After all, you may be here a long time."

St. Peter returned to his book.

_But... _

_Where's Johnny?_

Scriabin remained silent.

He had done it for so long. He didn't even really think too hard about how the mental processes began to find their mental voice, this time an honest reflection of his own.

_If I'm...already in Heaven...then there's nothing to fear. My fate has been decided. There's no harm in asking, is there? I...I know where Johnny must be, but I...I should ask I guess. I've always thought it..._  
  
"Excuse me..."

St. Peter looked up at him, eyebrows furrowed.

"I'm sorry to interrupt...I was just wondering if you knew where...someone else...went."

"Someone else?" St. Peter did not sound amused. Edgar felt his confidence faltering once again.

"Well, I just...I think they died at the same time I did...I was wondering where they went...if maybe they came here before me." _I don't think he did. But..._ "He was a man...his name was Johnny C.?"

St. Peter twitched visibly, but did not say anything. While Edgar could not maintain eye contact with him for very long, he was willing to wait for an answer. Apparently, none was coming. The angel turned back to his book, as if Edgar had never spoken at all.

With a slight sigh, Edgar turned away. Despite how dirty and run-down the place was, he decided he may as well take St. Peter's advice and look around.

As he walked along the path, he caught sight of a few strange things flying through the sky. He couldn't really describe them, but they gave him a vague feeling of unease. This heaven seemed a little...bizarre. Certainly not what he envisioned. He caught himself.

_It doesn't matter if this is what I thought Heaven would be like...this is Heaven, so I may as well accept and enjoy my time here._  
  
As he walked along the twisting path, he caught sight of a strange, almost robotic grasshopper-like creature carrying a large easy chair. Sitting in the chair was a short, fat, sleepy looking man, although Edgar hesitated to call him that. His shirt did say "God" after all.

"Excuse me..." Edgar called out to the grasshopper creature. It stopped to look at him.

"Shh!"

"I'm sorry." Edgar lowered his voice and glanced up at the sleeper in the chair. He didn't appear to be waking up anytime soon. "I was just wondering, who is that?"

"It's God of course," the creature said with annoyance. "Can't you read his shirt?"

"God?" Edgar looked up at the corpulent thing in the chair. Again, the word failed to register. "That's God?"

"Yes, and he's sleeping. Be quiet!" The creature hissed at him.

"But...can I ask him a few questions?" _Maybe I shouldn't, I mean...if that is God, I cannot question his will...and if it is God, he can take any form he likes...I shouldn't...but it wouldn't hurt, would it?_  
  
The creature sighed.

"Excuse me? God?" While initially Edgar had somewhat blocked out what this encounter could mean, the ramifications of what he was saying struck him as the words left his mouth. _This is God...this is everything. Everything I've ever based my life around is right here, sitting on this easy-chair...well, this may not be how I imagined God to look, but I can't judge him for it. He is...he is God after all._  
  
But that nagging doubt remained in his head. _If_ he is God.

The fat little thing scratched His stomach and cracked open an eye to look at him. "Mmph, wha? Whazza...yeah?"

"I'm...I..." _What can I say? What can I ask? I know...well, I think I know...I mean..._  
  
Edgar stood there like an idiot with his mouth open. God closed His eyes again and drifted back to sleep.

He watched for a few seconds and then turned his attention back to the creature carrying Him.

"Excuse me, have you seen someone named Johnny C.?"

"It depends." The creature whispered in a tone that indicated he should do the same. "Did he shout a lot?"

"I...I guess he would, really." Edgar imagined that, while he had no real questions for God, he was sure that Johnny would not be quite so tongue-tied. "He's rather emotional."

"Well, there was a guy who yelled quite a bit, but he got bored and left. Elize took him on a tour of the rest of Heaven. You might want to check with her."

"Elize?"

"Yeah. But I don't know where you'd find her though." The creature began to move, carrying the slumbering God carefully. "Now be quiet!"

Edgar watched the thing move off on its thin spidery legs. As he watched it leave, he waited for Scriabin to comment. To say anything. He knew that Scriabin in particular resented religion, resented its influence on Edgar's life in more ways than one. Surely, he would take this meeting with God and turn it against Edgar, rally his disappointment and throw it in his face...

But no.

The internal monologue that had started so subtly and had become such an inescapable torment during his life had stopped. It was a strange feeling, one that Edgar did not trust. As it was, he was confident that Scriabin still existed, and he was sure that he was waiting, biding his time. He was probably enjoying how confused Edgar was at his lack of input.

But then again, why _didn't_ he have any questions for God?

Unlike many questions, Edgar at least could come up with an answer for that on his own. His faith wasn't based on answers. It never had been and never would be. Whether or not God spoke to him was not important. He was God, after all. Edgar could not understand what was explained to him anyway. God's power was immutable and beyond human comprehension.

That was what Edgar had been taught and that was what he believed. That was one thing he believed in over everything. This may not have been the heaven he expected, but he did not question its existence.

In at least that way he was confident.

Someone tapped his shoulder.

With a start and a gasp, he turned around to find a rather nondescript woman standing behind him. She was shorter than he was, dressed primarily in black, had short black chopped hair, and a mild case of acne. She stared at him with barely concealed distaste.

"So, I'm supposed to show you around?"

"I suppose so." Edgar intended to be as companionable as possible. "I'm Edgar Vargas."

She inclined her head at him for a second, then sighed.

"I am Damned Patricia. Not Patty."

"Okay."

"Follow me." She shoved her hands in her pockets and began walking. Edgar stared after her, then shrugged. If she was his guide...

A few quick steps let him catch up to her.

"They told me I'd have to show you around during your stay here. You're still just visiting. At least until they clear up your whole act file business."

"So I'm just visiting..." Edgar repeated to himself.

"Yeah. You might as well get a look around, even if you don't end up here."

"Well, if you don't mind me asking...what are you doing here?"

"I'm actually from Hell." The woman shrugged. "Most of us damned do work up here. Does it surprise you?"

Edgar was silent for only a few seconds. "Not really."

"Yeah. Well, here we go."

Such a statement really should have preceded some kind of teleportation or some flashy show of power, but in contrast Patricia merely quickened her pace. Edgar matched it easily but with a sense of unease.

"Where are we going exactly? How big is this place?" Edgar wasn't sure how many questions would be comfortable. Patricia rolled her eyes and sighed.

"It's as big as it should be, and I'm basically just going to show you the center of everything."

"The center of everything..." Edgar echoed without thought. The two of them entered a short tunnel that blocked out the light from above. On that note, while Edgar had seen a great deal of clouds, he had not seen the sun.

"Yeah. Heaven isn't exactly what most people think it will be. Well, the people who actually get up here seem to enjoy it, but it's just so...you'll see. I guess if you're up here you'll understand it too." She looked at Edgar again, who matched her gaze with a raised eyebrow. "You look like the kind of guy who would."

"The angel at the entrance said something like that."

She snorted.

The darkness was short and not unpleasant, and soon they entered a different area. Edgar briefly questioned the purpose of the tunnel, but soon found his attention caught by something else.

Chairs and people.

The sky was the same, still cloudy with the strange creatures flitting by occasionally, but what was noticeable here was the total lack of noise. A few people were adjusting their chairs, brushing off their seats, but once they sat down they stopped moving entirely, just staring off into space.

The silence was what frightened him. He had never seen such a large gathering of people that produced no noise at all.

"So this is it." Patricia looked at him. "You're handling it a bit better than some of the others. Then again, they ended up going to Hell anyway, so..."

"What exactly is going on here?" Edgar could guess, but this was really not the place or time for logic, considering what he had seen so far.

"Y'know how in life, you always want stuff? Y'know, food, sleep, sex, money, blah blah blah. Well, these _lucky_ people here..." She held out a hand to the people sitting. Her tone was anything but kind. "They don't want anything anymore. So no want, no pain or suffering or anything."

"Really?" Edgar inclined his head at the people in front of him, who showed no notice of him at all. There were blood stains on the floor here that made him question their origin. "So, freedom from all desire..."

"Yup." A pause. "Boring, isn't it?"

Edgar didn't respond. He knew that trying to explain or justify this to Patricia would be futile. She had already shown herself to be rather unreceptive.

Might as well try a different topic...

"Excuse me, but have you ever heard of this man...his name is Johnny C. and I think he came through here recently."

She shrugged. "Haven't heard of him. Why, think he's going to Hell?"

Edgar said nothing.

And without any kind of warning, the world shifted abruptly. Was this what Patricia had meant before?

He could feel the cement pressing against his cheek before he could see it. When he opened his eyes the world was a mixture of indistinct colors and shapes, but then he noticed his glasses laying nearby. Wincing, he slowly pulled himself up off the sidewalk.

_Where am I?_  
  
He sat down, put his glasses back on, and looked around. While Heaven had been rather dingy, this was an all new level of grime. There were buildings now, looming tall and abandoned over him. Boards covered the windows, paint covered the walls, and over everything the distinct smell of urine and vomit. He rubbed his hands against his shirt self-consciously once he identified the smell.

Broken chain link fences marked off one building from another, as if anyone would ever want to enter one or claim ownership. Broken parts of cars and of various machines littered the dumpsters pressed against the larger buildings. Rust was everywhere, covering everything. He thought for a moment that he smelled the scent of cherries, but he couldn't be sure. It was probably his imagination.

Blood trails looped on the sidewalk in patterns that made no sense. They trailed up the walls, across the upended trash cans in the street, through the garbage and refuse that made Heaven look pristine in contrast. The distinct discoloration of stomach acid marked cement walkways, the acrid scent strongest near the sewage drains which were blocked with things he couldn't identify. There were streetlights, but they were aged and decrepit, long incapable of performing anything close to their intended function. Now they listed crazily in the streets, their lamps broken or dim, occasional pairs of shoes tied by the laces thrown across them. The power lines could be seen, dozens of posters that he couldn't find the time to read stapled across their poles, each one almost vengefully covering another.

The sky was a rusty red. If there had been a sun, he was sure that it would be stained that same color. Instead, there was a gigantic eyeball where the sun should have been, and it was focused squarely on him.

He stared up at it without emotion, his lips slightly parted as he subconsciously breathed through his mouth. He looked down and found he had been rubbing his hands on his shirt without stopping. He stared at them. Slightly red. The nagging thought that perhaps he had touched, he had put his hand in...something was almost enough to send him desperately trying to clean his hands again.

So far, he had dealt with these surroundings without emotion. Perhaps it was the familiarity...it was a city, however decrepit and ruined. It was familiar in that way.

He could hear things far away. The sounds of car horns, police sirens, gun shots, and a soft static that he couldn't easily explain. _This place must not be as abandoned as it seems._

He stood up shakily, still dizzy from his supposed fall. He used a wall for support as the blood rushed from his head and blacked out his vision for a few seconds, limiting his auditory range to a dull rushing sound. He was glad for the angel's aid, but apparently there were still some side-effects to his previous injury.

When his vision cleared, Edgar noticed that someone was staring at him. They were hiding behind the corner of the nearby building as if using it for protection. Even with his vision still somewhat blurry, Edgar could tell they were suspicious of him. Understandably, considering he had just fallen from the sky.

"What are you doing here?" A low and angry voice. Edgar decided to stay where he was to answer the question. _I don't want to provoke this person if at all possible._

"I'm not sure myself. This...this is Hell, isn't it?" Edgar had to focus hard to keep the meaning of those words from his mind.

"Of course it is. What are you, an idiot?"

Edgar again reminded himself to not provoke this person. "Who are you?"

"It's not important." Their voice was gravely enough so that it was hard to tell the person's gender, and they refused to let more than the top of their head show around the corner of the building. Their eyes were still narrowed. "Why should I tell you? Why do you want to know anyway? What are you doing here?"

_Focus on the simple question._ "I'm not quite sure why I'm here at the moment. I think there's been a mix-up in my file upstairs...that's what they said anyway-"

"Oh, I get it." The person's voice lowered considerably. "You're one of _those_ people."

_"Those" people?_  
  
"What do you mean, exactly?"

"One of those annoying screechers, the ones who are always innocent. I hate your kind." Still they stayed behind the building. "I hate how you blame everyone else for your problems except yourself, so that when you end up in Hell it's suddenly a big shock. _Hello!_ If you're here, you're here for a reason! Don't feign innocence, it sickens me. You sicken me."

Edgar's eye twitched. "I'm not trying to pretend to be innocent. Why would I? I don't particularly feel the need to impress you. I'm just genuinely confused."

"Huh, you can pretend all you want." It seemed that the person was not really paying attention to Edgar's words at this point. "Everyone does it. Everyone wants to pretend that it's not their fault they're down here. I hate that. Be honest for once in your life-"

"Then why are _you_ down here?" Edgar almost regretted speaking so quickly, but not quite.

"Me?" A pause. "That's why your types make me so furious. You know why I'm down here?" The eyes shifted back and forth, as if checking for someone else on these abandoned streets. "I'm really _not_ supposed to be here."

The person continued ranting without pause, apparently not noticing Edgar's raised eyebrow.

"That's what makes your types so pathetic. You always complain that you don't deserve to be here, always asking for help and complaining and whining and whinging about stupid things down here that you do to yourselves, and always always _always_ complaining that you aren't supposed to be here! How do you think that makes _me_ feel? I really don't belong here! God, you know what that makes you all? Poseurs."

_Can I walk away from this conversation?_  
  
"God, I hate poseurs more than anything! None of you idiots can really understand my pain! None of you understand what it's like to really be a downcast angel! What it's like to be in Hell when you're not supposed to! You can pretend all you like, but you'll never understand like I do. You'll never feel the _pain_ like I do."

Edgar managed to back himself behind the opposing wall. Despite the fact that he was now completely out of the person's line of vision, they were still talking. Taking this as something of a good sign, Edgar decided to get as far away as possible while he still could.

The alleyway he was in had several trash cans lined up against the brick walls, along with a singular dumpster covered in graffiti. More spray paint covered the walls and the stench Edgar had noticed previously was stronger here. No doubt the suspiciously viscous puddles scattered through here were the source. Edgar placed a hand over his mouth and nose and tried to breathe as little as possible. More garbage was strewn around the alleyway, broken glass and sagging cardboard boxes that blocked his path. Edgar made it a point not to touch anything if at all possible.

_Maybe I really am...but why would I be here?_

The smell was getting to him. He felt sick.

_This must be some kind of mistake..._

Finally, the alleyway opened onto another street, although this one was in much the same condition as the previous. Here, bits and pieces of ruined machinery rested against the stained and crumbling brick walls. A window in a nearby building was shattered and the glass glittered in dull red light. Blocking off one end of this street was a large pile of shrapnel and broken pipes, underneath which were large dark spots that spread out onto the asphalt. Parked beside the assortment of rusted metal was an ancient car. Its windshield and windows had long since been broken and its body stripped. It rested on the street without tires, its hood popped and trunk open. With a little further inspection, Edgar noticed there was an arm in the trunk.

He forced his eyes elsewhere.

A telephone pole here had fallen completely, making traveling further down this street difficult, but not impossible. As Edgar headed that way, he began to hear something distinct against the constant inexplicable static. The very short breaths, along with a high-pitched whine, that indicated that someone somewhere was in pain.

_But...if this is...and I think it is, would it really be wise...?_

Edgar's conscience would not let him leave someone alone like that, even if he really was in Hell, which he still doubted. Tracking the noise proved to be more trying than he would have thought originally. He hadn't considered how distracting the static could be.

Eventually, Edgar did find where the noise was coming from. A large, portly man in tattered clothes was sitting against the side of a building, his face hidden in his hands. He didn't hear Edgar approach and jumped when he finally said something.

"Excuse me...are you all right?"

The man pulled his hands away so Edgar could see his face. Both of his eyes were swollen shut and his features were covered with bruises. Thin lines of blood ran down from his temple, although the smeared remnants across his cheeks and forehead indicated that this wasn't the first time he had bled in this way.

Something about him seemed familiar, but Edgar couldn't place why.

"You...haven't I...didn't I see you somewhere before?" The man's voice was hoarse and ragged.

"I don't think-" The indistinct and distorted features fell into place.

_Todd? I like "Squee" better._  
  
Edgar took a step back, instinctual revulsion rising into his mouth. "You..."

"You look so familiar..." The man stared at him. If he was trying to convey a facial emotion, it couldn't be interpreted from his ruined features. "I could swear...I've seen you somewhere before..."

He had thought it. He had watched it happen, wondered about the consequences of this man's actions during his brief time in Edgar's life.

It had never occurred to him to think of the afterlife. Of where he would go. Of what would happen.

Of course he would be here. This was the only place he could be. No God, no matter how forgiving or lenient, would ever let this man free. He had to be here.

Why was he surprised at first?

Now he knew. Now he remembered the bat striking the man's head, how he fell back, how he had watched him be dismembered. He remembered what he had been planning to do to Todd.

He took another step back, his eyes narrowing as his hands clenched into fists without his knowledge.

"It doesn't matter though, not really..." The man leaned forward, staring at him in a way that Edgar guessed was desperate, although it was hard to tell. "You...you're the first person to come here in a while. No one stays in these parts of the cities, not anymore. That's why I'm here. It's safer here than in the other places. There are still a few stragglers around here, the people too different to leave, and they're dangerous, but they don't talk to me. You're the first one to talk to me. I can't believe it, I thought no one would ever talk to me again."

Edgar backed away the entire time he spoke, and the man stood up. The few remnants of his shorts and T-shirt were covered in dried splotches of blood and other things Edgar didn't want to think about.

"This place is dangerous." He whispered to Edgar. "This place is always dangerous. People are always watching here. They know exactly what you do. They're always watching you. The eye..."

The man turned and looked up at the rusty sky. Edgar choked when he could see his back. The shirt had been ripped to shreds and the tips of fabric dyed the dark brown color of old blood. Burned into the flesh of the man's back were large letters. The skin around them was so light that there was no way they could be missed. The letters almost seemed to twist before his eyes, blackened and charred flesh weaving around itself, wrinkling and unwrinkling.

PEDOPHILE

He turned around again at the sound that Edgar made.

"What? What's wrong?"

Edgar realized his mouth was open and shut it quickly. He stared at the man and found himself unable to say anything.

"Did you see one of _them_?" The man looked around himself as best he could through swollen flesh. "They're everywhere. You'll never escape them, you know. No matter how you try, they'll always find you. There aren't as many here though."

He stepped closer.

"You, you look so familiar. Have we met? I've been down here for what feels like years. How old were you when you died? Are you new here? I mean...new to Hell, or just new to the area?"

Edgar was trying to suppress the urge to run. He couldn't explain why.

"You're the first person to talk to me." The man took another step closer to Edgar. "No one wants to talk to me. Everyone down here...they want me dead, but I can't die. That's why...that's why I look like this. I know I don't look like this, I don't look that great. That's their fault. They hate me down here. They hated me in life and they hate me down here too."

"Your back..." Edgar managed to croak out. The man stared at him for a few seconds.

"What? What do you mean?"

"You're a...you're the..."

"Please don't leave!" The man held out his arms towards Edgar. "Please please please, I haven't talked to another human being in so long! You're my friend, aren't you? Please, don't go!"

Edgar felt like he was choking.

"Please, you can't leave me alone here. You can't leave me here alone, they'll come for me. I know they will. You've got to help me. You can help me. I know you can. Please, don't go."

His fingers came close enough to brush against Edgar's shirt.

"Don't touch me oh god don't touch me, get away from me!" Whatever defense he had crumbled, and he panicked. He stumbled backwards and away from the man so quickly that he ended up tripping and falling, the palms of his hands stinging as they collided with the asphalt.

"Please don't, please don't overreact, I just want to talk, that's all-"

Edgar scrambled to his feet and without any further thought began to run.

"Please!"

That was the last thing he heard him say. He vaulted over the telephone pole and darted down the first alleyway he could find, in the process crashing into several cardboard boxes and more than a few walls. He ran without thought until he hit a tall stack of cardboard boxes and ended up falling completely, this time out onto another street. His glasses bounced off his face and skittered across the sidewalk.

He panted for a few seconds on his stomach, his head resting on the arm he protectively thrown out at the last minute. He could feel the stinging burn as new scrapes pressed against the ground.

When he felt like he could stand without getting dizzy, he went and got his glasses. After he put them on, he looked over his arm and his hands. His palms were bleeding from several dozen areas, tiny dots of blood amongst the thin ragged scraps of his outer skin layer. His arm was not much different, angry white lines beginning to fill with red. He may have fallen kind of hard, but he didn't think he fell with enough power to do this much damage.

He couldn't think about what just happened. Everything in his mental thought processes struggled to avoid it. He felt nauseous enough with the constant smell here...he didn't want to think about what he had just seen.

He brushed himself off and looked around. Another ruined street, this one with a few more stripped cars. A telephone line here had broken and the thick wire rested on the street.

When Edgar looked at his feet, he noticed that the boxes he had knocked over contained porno magazines. Soggy, ripped, and dirty magazines. He immediately backed away from them without any conscious thought. Every kind of perversion was represented in full color on cheap paper, even some fetishes that Edgar did not know existed.

_What are they doing-_

If this is...well, that would make sense, but if they are...then that means...but...

Uncomfortable. Edgar noticed that one member of a captured carnal act wore glasses in a similar style to his own, and at the realization he turned away.

It's strange how when you don't want to think about something, it's the only thing you can think about.

He ran a hand through his hair and took a few steps out onto the street. The static now seemed stronger.

_What exactly am I heading towards?_

Despite everything that had happened so far, Edgar still did not truly believe this was Hell. He didn't know what else it could be, but the denial had worked its way deep and insistent. _This couldn't be. I would never... _

A voice.

"Edgar Vargas."

He turned slowly. The figure behind him was overwhelmingly tall, and without even a second of doubt Edgar knew this was the devil.

The denial vanished.

"You're..."

"Please." The skull-like face smiled with paper-thin lips. "Call me Senor Diablo."

Edgar stared at him. Fear was rising quickly now, despite his efforts to stay calm. Every story, every myth, every legend, every movie, every cartoon, every bit of folklore that ever described Hell kept leaping to mind. He couldn't stop thinking of the fire.

_They'll take you to a place where there's everlasting ever-burning hellfire... _He remembered Scriabin's words, now strangely hollow in his own voice.

"Am I..." Edgar whispered, his voice barely audible to even himself. The Devil leaned down so that Edgar could stare into the great empty eyes.

"Damned?" His voice slid out from between those lips, and he smiled at him again. Edgar shuddered so violently that he couldn't keep eye contact. The Devil seemed amused by this.

"Am I..." Edgar said to himself.

"At the moment, not exactly." He spoke with barely controlled sadistic glee. The sudden comparison of the Devil's voice to Scriabin's was enough to make Edgar vomit. As he violently expelled his stomach's contents all over the already dirtied sidewalk, the Devil continued talking as if nothing was happening.

"I'm afraid there's been some confusion, Mr. Vargas. A slight mix-up. It's hardly a perfect system they run here." The reference to 'they' was noted, but he couldn't spare thought for it now. "Did you know, Mr. Vargas, that you were intended to die some time ago?"

Edgar could not respond as he was still dry heaving.

"Yes. You were supposed to die back when you met our charming friend Johnny. Of course, there are slip-ups in this world and others, and I suppose it's not too unbelievable to think that you fell through the cracks. After all, by your own admittance, you are not the most interesting of people."

Finally, Edgar could pull himself together enough to speak. He wiped at his mouth at pauses in his speech compulsively, convinced that there was still vomit somewhere on his person.

"Johnny..." His voice was hoarse and weak.

"Yes, Johnny." The Devil looked up at the giant eyeball. He was still smiling, although this time in a different way. "Our troublemaker. He was a mistake right from the beginning."

Edgar stared up at him with watery eyes.

"You're looking for him, aren't you?" The Devil turned his empty eyes back down to him. "You want to know if Johnny is truly damned. I know why."

Edgar coughed feebly and suppressed his stomach's lurching. "I am..."

"Mr. Vargas, there is a system that works here. It's hardly perfect, but it normally performs its function quite well." He paused for a moment. "You may be wondering why I'm telling you anything."

Edgar stared down at his hands against the stained and dark cement.

"There's nothing you can do. There's nothing quite like watching someone rage impotently against something they can't change. That was a gift Johnny had by all measures. I have a feeling you won't be quite so proactive, but I also know that these words will likely haunt you for the rest of your life."

Edgar couldn't look at him. He kept trying to disassociate the Devil's voice with Scriabin's and in the process, only found them becoming more and more similar.

"That, and the process has already begun for you. There is no turning back. In this case, this is a far better decision than was made with Johnny. I have a feeling that you will complete your newly intended function admirably."

"What are you talking about...?" Edgar managed to wheeze out between breaths that were becoming too short.

"How to begin? People in general go through a myriad of negative feelings. All of these negative features of humanity don't just vanish. No. They leave behind trails, traces. This hostility and negativity has to go somewhere. Imagine, walking through a world where the very air you breathed was hate!" The Devil did not seem opposed to the idea. "Now, all of this excess is stored in areas we call waste-cells. You are paying attention, aren't you ? This is where you come in."

Edgar managed to raise his eyes to stare at the Devil. He felt something warm trickling down his face and knew, without touching, that his scars were bleeding again. He couldn't guess or even think as to why.

"These cells hold all this animousity, the barely masked loathing and enmity, but they have to get rid of it eventually. This is where the waste-locks come in. The locks keep the cell from opening and releasing all of its stored hatred. They also, when destroyed, can cause the cell to empty itself into nothing, which is what basically just happened. Can you put it all together, Mr. Vargas?"

He rubbed at his face with the back of a hand, and stared at the streak of blood across his skin. "I..."

"Johnny was a lock. This was a mistake in general. Usually, the position of lock drives a person to madness and to eventual collapse and suicide. Locks are quiet, introverted people. They have to allow that hatred to travel through them to the cell. Johnny, however, was able to harness that hatred and use it for his own ends. He was able to use the general powers that are associated with locks, namely invisibility, to release more hatred."

_Invisibility..._  
  
"And now, Johnny has been set free. The cell is empty and now, there's no need for the lock."

"So is...he..."

"Damned? Not quite. Those in charge of this system decided to send him back. I can't see why, but it's not my place to question."

"Oh..."

"I can feel your doubt." Edgar again felt a rush of nausea at the words. They mimicked Scriabin's torment so well. Tears stung his eyes. "You're afraid of being damned while Johnny gets another chance at life."

"Not...not exactly..." Edgar managed to say.

"There's a reason this is Hell, Mr. Vargas. Regardless if he were here or not, there would be no way you could soothe his torment. I do find it cute that you want to try. Perhaps you won't end up here."

Edgar blinked and felt the cooling heat travel down his face. He stared up at the face of the Devil.

"What?"

"You have a purpose, Mr. Vargas. I just told you. They're quiet, introverted people. A threat to no one but themselves."

"I'm..."

"Some may say you're getting a second chance." The Devil smirked as he stared up at the sky. "In reality, you're being given uncounted years of mental torture just to end up, in the most likely case, right here again, sitting in your own pile of vomit."

Edgar stared at the Devil, and he stared back.

"Irony is a marvelous thing, isn't it?"

A feeling unlike any other came over him and he stared down at his hands. They shook with impossible speed, the blood across his hand blurring into the sky.

"By the way, the process should be painless, but for some it can be remarkably excruciating. You may also lose all your hair. Just a note."

He felt his eyes roll up into his head and his heart stopped. He opened his mouth to cry out, but his vocal cords constricted. He couldn't breathe. He was just barely aware of a choked cry he made before he disappeared.

Agony unlike any other came over him, electrifying limbs he could no longer move and twisting a heart that could no longer function. He was given the vague impression that perhaps he was bleeding from his eyes.

No...it was just his nose. His mouth. His throat felt like it was filled with sand. It hurt to breathe. He began coughing, struggling to clear almost blocked air passages of blood and mucus, before he realized.

He didn't have the energy to raise his head, but he could see Johnny's prone figure a short distance away.

Edgar retched as feeling came back into cold and deadened limbs. Pins and needles spread all over his body at once, making any movement magnified and difficult. His eyes were bleary, although with some effort and pain he was able to paw at them, clearing them enough to see a little better. Enough to see the pool of blood he had been lying in, and the thin lines of blood that still connected the side of his head to the floor.

He coughed, and a tooth clattered to the wood.

He was alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was an interesting chapter. Part of it I wrote while I was in an incomprehensible rage, another was written totally normally, and another part was written normally but actually creeped me out. Can you tell which part was written when? FUN CHALLENGE GO  
> Hahaha, some pretty obvious Silent Hill type stuff in here. What can I say, Rain of Brass Petals ate my brain.  
> You people, asking me if that last chapter was the end. Of course it wasn't! I wouldn't let poor Edgar off that easy.


	15. Free

He was alive.

This was something of a surprise.

_Where...where am I? What happened? _

_Where am I? What happened?_

He coughed again. He could still feel something running down his chin. Edgar forced his arms and hands to move and found blood at his fingertips.

_Where am I? What happened? Where am I? What happened? _

_That doesn't sound like me._

The pain faded along with the soreness in his throat. His nasal passages began to clear, breathing became much easier, and as his body gradually came more under his control, he could feel his stomach calming. That was a definite relief. He had felt nauseous so often lately and was glad when it began to recede for once. While his vision was by no means fantastic without his glasses, he could still tell when the blurriness of waking was gone.

All of it, all of his initial feelings when he woke up...

He inspected his teeth with his tongue and strangely enough, found them all in place. The taste of blood remained.

_Where am I where am I where am I where...where...what ha-...where...where AM I?_  
  
His stomach lurched.

_Oh god no, no please, no please don't let please no _

_Nnngh...I...I remember now. That wasn't pleasant._

Edgar put his head in his hands as he tried to force the dizziness away.

_Why...why did you have to come back too..._  
  
Even though Scriabin sounded just as disoriented as he, he could still lace his words with familiar disdain. _Haven't we gone over this before, my boy?_  
  
He had managed to convince himself that Scriabin was only waiting for his chance, that he had never really left, and yet he still felt disappointed when he was proven right.

_So, it looks like we're alive again, and your nose appears to be in fairly good shape, considering._  
  
Edgar's fingers traced along his skin and ran across the small bandage on the bridge of his nose.

_Now, important things first...where are your glasses?_  
  
He blinked for a few seconds before he could make out a blurry lump nearby.

_Nny-_  
  
Edgar tried to stand up so fast he fell forward onto his hands.

_Oh, this again. I suppose we can- _

_Shut up!_

When he finally knelt beside his body, he could make out some details, though not many. Even without his glasses he could see that Johnny rested in a pool of blood far larger than the one Edgar had found himself in. It hadn't completely dried yet.

He cursed his lack of proper vision, yet could not leave Johnny's side to find his glasses. That wasn't a possibility, not now.

Edgar rested a hand on Johnny's shoulder, then jerked it away instinctively. Johnny didn't move in response, so Edgar gingerly replaced his hand. A few moments of skin resting against rough fabric.

He was afraid to roll him over, to look on his destroyed face again.

_Ah, I see you're admitting it now. That's a step forward if nothing else._ His voice wavered.

When he finally turned Johnny onto his back, Edgar took a sharp breath. The features that he had come to know so well, the sunken cheeks and thin lips and dark bags beneath his eyes, they were all intact. Only a few spatters of blood marked his skin, trailing lines beneath a single bandage on his forehead. Nothing to indicate that the previous damage Edgar had seen before had ever happened.

Johnny looked as if he was asleep.

Much like he denied the disappointment when Scriabin had reappeared, he tried to deny the surge of hope that ran through him when he saw Johnny's face.

_But...but... _

_This is interesting._

Edgar found his hand running along the side of Johnny's face, outlining the bandage against his skin. He was breathing hard. Maybe, maybe, if his face is okay, then maybe...

_I...I can't feel a heartbeat... _

_Yes, I'm sure that's why you were doing that._

Edgar stared at Johnny without words for almost a minute, still processing the lack of the gunshot wound and his apparent miraculous recovery.

_Ironic choice of words there._  
  
The memory of Krik came to mind, along with the fact he still wasn't wearing his glasses. He tried to remember what had happened to them and could only recall the sound of them breaking. Now that it seemed that Johnny was potentially all right, his thoughts began to focus on regaining his glasses without guilt.

_If my...nose is okay, then maybe... _

_I doubt it, but go ahead and look. I somehow feel that Nny is not going to be moving anytime soon._

Edgar slowly edged away from Johnny but kept his eyes on him for as long as possible. Johnny didn't move.

_My bandage seems to have fixed my nose... _

_Or maybe it just dulled the pain. Who can tell?_

He couldn't make out anything with any clarity on the stained floor, just dark and light colors that were no help. He felt around and ran across several shards of glass, which didn't make him feel any better. Eventually he did find the frames of his glasses. The lenses had been cracked. When he put them on, it fragmented his vision in an annoying but not completely debilitating way. He could see. Not perfectly by any stretch of the imagination, but he could see.

He made his way back to Johnny on hands and knees.

_What should I do..._  
  
Edgar pulled his knees up to his chest as he stared down at Johnny.

_Well, he's not breathing. I think he's pretty dead. What do you think?_  
  
He narrowed his eyes and fought against the rush of heat that came to his face at Scriabin's words.

_God, why did you have to come back. Why... _

_Just full of stupid questions today, aren't we?_

He noticed that he was still staring at Johnny. One of Johnny's hands rested on his chest while the other rested at his side. His eyes remained closed, although his lips were slightly parted. His skin was stained slightly in places by remnants of blood, a few of the spatters marking the edge of his mouth and his cheekbones.

Edgar took one of Johnny's hands in his own and pressed two fingers to the bottom of a skeletal wrist. No sound or movement or warmth, although Edgar knew that Johnny was perpetually cold.

Some people describe a sensation likened to their stomach suddenly falling into their feet. Edgar, in contrast, was experiencing something akin to his stomach taking a very leisurely stroll down to his feet, making sure that every second of failing hope and growing sadness was not missed.

He didn't know he was doing it, but he gently rubbed at Johnny's hand as if to warm it. At the realization he pulled his hands away quickly.

_I...I have to do something._  
  
Edgar uncurled and looked at the door.

_I'm not going to sit here and do nothing. _

_Like last time._

_I'm not going to sit here and do nothing._ He had yet to perfect the art of ignoring Scriabin._ I'm...I have to do something. Even if he's...I have to make sure. I have to do something. _

_Really? Like what?_

Edgar was silent.

_I...I can't call an ambulance here because they won't be able to find his house. So...I'm going to have to take us there myself.  
_  
_Are you sure you're in the condition to drive? I don't think a policeman would look kindly on your broken lenses and a dead man in the front seat.  
_  
_Shut up. That's what I'm going to do._ With that resolved Edgar stood up. Once he had decided on a course of action, his emotions again began to fade into the background.

_He's dead, you know._  
  
Edgar tried to ignore him.

_He really is._  
  
Edgar took one of Johnny's hands and began to pull him off the floor. He was still resting in a pool of blood and when he was lifted out of it, thin tendrils of it clung to his hair and the back of his neck.

Then Edgar noticed that Johnny's hair was dripping back down to the floor along with his blood.

With a soft gasp, Edgar jerked Johnny forward unconsciously to get a better look at what was going on. Johnny's chin fell against his shoulder as Edgar closed his arms around him, reached up to his bloody scalp.

_This is just too cute. _

_Shut up!_

He ran a hand through Johnny's hair gingerly and found that when he pulled it away, clumps of hair came along with it. Without thinking he shook his hand clean as more bits of hair fell to the floor. At this rate, Johnny would go bald.

"What...why..."

He didn't intend to talk to himself as much as he did.

_Do you remember what I said before? _

_No._

_Yes you do. You do remember. I think this is a good time to bring it up, seeing as you two are sharing such an intimate moment of hair loss._

Edgar maneuvered an arm beneath Johnny's knees and the other beneath his shoulders and lifted. He was surprisingly light, another reminder of his weight or lack thereof.

_In the interest of abbreviation, I'll make this simple. Why are you doing this, Edgar?_  
  
Johnny shed hair as Edgar stumbled towards the front door.

_What? _

_Why are you doing this? You're awfully slow lately._

_I'm...he's..._

_What? What were you going to say?_

_Johnny is...he's my friend._

_A hurdle crossed, but it's a hollow victory. Tell me, Edgar, do you care about Johnny? _

_No._ He found himself answering automatically to his surprise._ I mean, I didn't mean that. I-_

_Denial, Edgar. My god, that's pathetic. How far in the closet are you? You can't even admit to caring about your so-called friend because you're so afraid of what others...no...what I will think about you._

_That's not true, it just slipped, I didn't mean it like that-_

_You care about what I think about you._

Edgar put Johnny down carefully beside his car as he opened the passenger side door.

_No I don't. I hate you. Why won't you- _

_Well, you know what, Edgar? Let's stop playing the eternal favorite of "let's avoid the issue" as you're so wont to do. You do care about Johnny. Deny that._

_I can't...I do care, but it's because-_

_Why couldn't you say as much before? Why are you so afraid of my disapproval, Edgar? Are you trying to impress me?_ He could hear the smile in Scriabin's voice.

_No I'm not. Why would I ever want to impress you? You sicken me, you're everything I've ever hated. I don't know why I said that, but it wasn't because I wanted to. It was just a slip, I didn't mean it._  
  
As he buckled his seat-belt, he looked over at Johnny. His head was slumped forward on his chest as he strained against his seat-belt to fall forward.

_Why is it, Edgar, that every time I say what you have already admitted is true, what you supposedly have made peace with, your heart jumps just that little bit? Why does your body physiologically react to the statement "I care about Nny," Edgar? Can you answer that, if my opinion about you doesn't matter? _

_I'm trying to concentrate, stop distracting me._

_I forgot, it's so much easier to try and drone me out now, isn't it? Traffic lights and old ingrained rules of the road to fight against your emotions._

_Nny is my friend._

_As if that's what we were arguing about!_

_He-_

_Are you sure about that? When did this happen?_

_When..._

He had passed by the hospital on his way to work many times, so it didn't take him much time or effort to locate the large white building.

_Remember your little mental conniption when I presented that possibility to you before? How you had a veritable heart attack at the very idea that Nny could care for you and, much less, that you could care about him in return? What has changed since then, Edgar? Why is it now that admitting you care about him not nearly as upsetting? _

_Caring about him is different than being...than what you insinuated back then. It's very different._

_Are we back to playing the denial card again? How many times must we go through the same pattern before you wake up?_

He parked and pulled Johnny from the car. He was still completely unresponsive.

_You want so badly for him to be alive. It's sad. I know that you're imagining that you can feel his heartbeat. Think about that._  
  
The emergency room had a few people in it, but not a large amount. He wasn't sure what time it was, so he couldn't use that as a frame of reference. Before he could make it all the way to the desk, a nurse ran up to him.

"What's your emergency?"

"I'm, I think he's, I'm not sure, he's not breathing, I think- I think he may be in shock, I'm not sure-"

"Okay." She gestured to some others standing nearby who pulled Johnny out of his hands. "What happened?"

"I'm-"

_He shot himself in the head, Nurse. But now he's magically all better!_  
  
"I found him like this, I'm not sure what happened-"

"What's his name?"

"Johnny..."

_Didn't think this far, did we?_  
  
"Johnny?" She echoed as the orderlies rested Johnny on a stretcher.

"Jonathan Vargas."

_...where the fuck did that come from? _

_The implications of this are enough to amuse me for weeks. How does your foot taste, Edgar?_

"All right, and you are...?"

"I'm Edgar Vargas, I'm..." He glanced over at Johnny before they wheeled him out of sight. "I'm his...his brother."

Perhaps normally he would have sounded suspicious, but the nurse interpreted his halting words as perhaps a sign of worry or stress.

"Are you all right, Mr. Vargas?" She looked him over. "You don't look-"

"No, I'm fine, I'm just worried about...him..."

"Well, don't worry. If there's anything we can do, I assure you that we'll do it. You are aware that there is a charge..."

He reached into his pocket in a panic before his fingers touched his wallet. "Yeah, it's okay. I've got it."

"Good. If you'll come over here and just take care of some forms..."

* * *

It was the longest hour that Edgar had ever experienced in his entire life.

He had been run through a battery of questions about Johnny that he couldn't really answer. He couldn't tell the truth as to how Johnny got this way. He didn't know whether or not Johnny was on medication--although he somehow doubted it--or his previous medical history. He gave out all of his own information in regard to where Johnny lived or what his phone number was. He didn't want the hospital to try and get in contact with a phantom. That might make things difficult.

They assured Edgar that considering how serious Johnny's condition seemed to be, it wouldn't take long at all for him to be seen and helped, but this didn't put his mind at rest.

Edgar sat in the waiting room and stared at the clock.

_Johnny's your brother now, hmm?_  
  
Scriabin did not help the time go by more quickly.

_I...what else was I supposed to say? _

_I don't think "life-partner" would have gone over well, now that you mention it._

_We're not-, shut up._

_So I suppose, giving how very close you two are, that being brothers would be understandable. Or believable if you two even looked alike. I'm surprised they didn't question you about that._

_I just...I didn't know what to do._

Edgar had his head in his hands.

_Don't you think they'll find the holes in your brilliant plan? This is where you see your optometrist, isn't it? Don't you think those records will eventually cross with tonight's? What will happen then? _

_I had to say something, I didn't think..._

_You...you weren't sure they'd let you visit him if you were just a friend._

_I d-..._ Edgar realized that denying this at least was useless. Scriabin had heard him._ I guess I did. And I wasn't sure if he had any kind of insurance or anything like that, so- _

_You wanted to be by his side and watch over him?_

He pressed on his eyes until he could see stars._ ...Yes, I suppose I did..._

_Did you forget that he's dead? How long do you think it'll be before the hospital staff here picks up on that?_

_Well...if they haven't yet, then-_

_You're clinging to a false hope, Edgar. You want so badly for him to be alive, for him to be okay, and why? What for? So he can threaten you, be vague, frighten you into submission? So that he can hurt you again? Because that's what he does, as he said himself. Why? Why do you want him to be alive?_

_I just...if I'm okay, then..._

_But then again, I guess believing in lies is one of your strong points. You're a Christian, after all._

And he thought of the Devil.

_I...I didn't know you could dream when you were unconscious... _

_A dream?_

_I think it was a dream..._

_You think it was a dream. A rather pathetic cover-up for something, but regardless you never answered my question. This relationship, as I have said so many times, is inherently abusive to the extent of ending in your actual death. Why are you fighting to preserve it?_

_I..._

His eyes hurt and he released some of the pressure.

"I don't want him to die..."

_Looks like you're mixing up reality and fantasy again. I hope no one heard that._  
  
"Excuse me, Mr. Vargas?"

Edgar took a deep shuddery breath before he looked up. A young man stood beside him with an unreadable expression.

"Is he...?" He wanted to run out of the room before he could hear the answer.

"Well, when he came in he was showing no vital signs whatsoever, so we weren't sure if he was going to make it or not...although he did have blood on him, he didn't have any internal bleeding...he is extremely malnourished though. Is he anorexic?"

Is.

"Is he alive?" Edgar's voice was hoarse.

"That's the interesting part, actually...we tried a few resuscitation methods on him at first and none of them worked, so we were sure that he had passed on, but then...almost without any explanation, his heart started up again and he started breathing."

"Oh my god..."

_Holy shit._  
  
"After that, he stabilized fairly quickly, although he still hasn't woken up at the moment. Other than the lack of food he seems fairly healthy. You can go and see him, if you want."

It took a few moments for Edgar to find his words. He ran a hand through his hair as he tried to suppress his urge to detach. He wanted to feel this.

"Where is he?"

"C'mon, I'll show you."

Edgar stood up and leaned against the wall for support for a few seconds. The young man waited patiently until Edgar could follow him and began walking.

_He's...he's alive. _

_To be honest, I'm as shocked as you are._

_I...I can't believe it...this must be some kind of miracle._

Scriabin laughed for a long time.

The young man pulled aside a light green curtain. "I thought he would like some quiet, so..."

Edgar nodded, but was too distracted to actually say something.

Johnny's thin arms rested against equally thin sheets, his eyes closed and his head leaned to one side. From one wrist trailed a tube that led to a bag hanging beside his bed. More than anything, Edgar watched his chest and saw him breathing.

_I can't believe it..._  
  
He sat down hard on the cheap chair set up near the bed and the young man turned to another patient who needed his attention.

_I suppose the IV is because of the malnutrition..._  
  
They had cleaned up Johnny's face but left the bandage, which Edgar was pretty sure was a good thing. At this point, almost all of Johnny's hair had fallen out, leaving only two thin bangs.

_I don't think he's going to like that when he wakes up. _

_I can't believe it..._

His barriers were finally letting some emotion through. Despite the fact that Johnny would no doubt be disgusted if he were awake, Edgar reached out and took hold of his hand. The twisting tension that had been building since he woke, that knot in his chest that had prevented any real emotion or comprehension of the situation slowly loosened. He took a few deep breaths as he felt more relieved than he ever had in his life. The question of what had happened, of whether or not he had actually visited the afterlife, whether or not everything was a dream, why he was alive right now and why Johnny was with him, all of them paled in comparison to the feeling of cold skin against his own. To the soft occasional thrum of blood through veins too close to the skin.

"I can't believe you're okay..."

_What if Johnny loves you, Edgar._  
  
Not even that could ruin his mood.

_What if you love Johnny._

_I don't care._

* * *

_Nnngh..._  
  
He could feel the sensation of cold fabric and something pressing against his wrist. And his hand.

He opened his eyes slightly, enough to see light green paper masquerading as a bed sheet and matching curtains. The pressure on his hand disappeared.

_The world exists...I must still be alive._  
  
He closed his eyes again. The light was a little painful. He waited for the inevitable comment, something to speak, but instead could only hear a faint buzzing. Kind of like when he was at Edgar's house. There was a constant undercurrent of beeping, squeaking wheels, people talking and crying, and phones ringing, but none of it loud enough to annoy or distract yet.

He obviously wasn't home.

_Where am I? _

_Hello? Helloooo?_

And there was only the buzzing.

_Nothing. It's just me.  
_  
_Was he telling the truth? Am I really free now? Do I really have control? I'm not used to having control...am I still crazy?_  
  
Someone nearby shrieked with obnoxious laughter. He imagined how quickly and efficiently he could rip out their vocal cords and tie them in a knot.

_Okay, that answers that. _

_If I really am in control...this feels so strange. I can't hear anything, I'm really in control now! I feel so free...how long has it been?_

_Things can be different now, yes. Things can be different. I just have to be careful. I can take control of my life now, I can take control of so many things. God, I feel so unfettered! There are so many opportunities open to me now! I'm at the threshold of something grand and new! Like I can finally start everything over again..._

His eyes adjusted enough so that he could see without pain, and the first thing that he saw was Edgar.

_How long has it been since I've seen you?_  
  
"You're awake." Edgar smiled, although he tried to keep it subtle.

_It's been a million years since I've heard your voice._  
  
"Where am I...?" He coughed. He had been dead for some time...it'd make sense if his voice was out of practice.

Edgar looked down for a second at his hands before he ran a hand through his hair. He did that all the time. "Um...we're at...the hospital."

Johnny stared down at his own hands before he noticed the IV line. "I see."

"I..." Edgar paused for a few long seconds. Johnny was used to these sort of pauses. He was probably deciding what to say. Edgar spent a lot more time on that than Johnny did. "I was...well, I was worried about you. To put it mildly. I..."

There he stopped. Johnny wasn't sure why.

"You mean, after I died or before?"

Edgar turned and blinked at him several times. _Why does he look so surprised? It's a reasonable question._  
  
He adjusted his broken glasses, which Johnny noticed for the first time. _When did that happen? And why does he have a Band-Aid on his nose?_  
  
"I...I'm not..." Edgar made a soft noise and bit his lip. "I'm not quite sure about what happened..."

"What happened to your glasses?" Johnny raised a hand and pointed at him. Edgar reached up to touch them.

"Oh..."

There was another pause, then Edgar took them off. He held them only inches away from his face, inspecting the cracks and fine lines that ran through the glass.

"I..." Edgar glanced over at him for a second, then sighed. "I guess I should start from the beginning..."

Johnny tilted his head to look at him. Edgar didn't meet his eyes, instead focusing on his broken glasses.

"I'm afraid...I was the one who called you. I think. When the...gun you..." Edgar looked at him then, though he was turning his glasses over and over with shaking hands. "The gun you...attached to your phone..."

Johnny thought for a few seconds. "So it was you. That makes sense."

Edgar blinked at him before turning his eyes back to his glasses. "When I heard...what happened I had to go and see if...well, if you were okay. When I got there..."

Again he trailed off.

"Why did you want to check up on me?" Johnny raised an eyebrow. "You knew what I was doing, didn't you? Why would you spend the time?"

Edgar stared at him in mild surprise. He guessed that it might have been his tone of voice. It was a purely clinical question, which he supposed must have been unexpected.

"I know...you've told me beforehand, all the things you've said you've done and tried...I guess I just...I know you wanted to commit suicide." The emotion was draining from his voice. "But at the same time I...well, we're friends, aren't we?" Edgar didn't look at him. "I guess I just didn't want to lose you like that. I wanted to say good-bye."

Johnny thought of arguing against the change in motive, but decided against it. He knew why anyway. He just wanted to see if Edgar knew as well.

"But, while I was there, these two people showed up. I think..." Edgar rubbed his nose. "I think the man's name was Krik, and the woman was Tess. I'm not sure if you were...conscious at that point..."

_I remember. You were there. You were _there.

"Did you-"

"I...I'm not sure if you remember, but Krik tried to attack you and..." Edgar turned away at this point and adjusted the curtain around the bed. He stared alternately at the floor, at the sheets, and at his hands. "I couldn't let him get away with that, really, so I tried to stop him."

Finally his eyes settled back on Johnny's. He laughed a bit. "I'm not as good at fighting as you are, I'm afraid."

Johnny smiled in response. _Of course you aren't._  
  
"So, that's how they got broken..." Edgar smiled as he put them back on. The broken lenses caused his eyes to multiply. His voice changed again, that familiar tone when he was searching for something to say, something to fill in those pauses. "I'll go and talk to my optometrist later, they've got my prescription so it won't take me very long. It might take a few days for them to get them ready and all, but they really aren't that bad. I can still see out of them."

"Where did that Band-Aid come from?" _One question answered, one to go._  
  
Edgar blanched then tried to hide it.

"Um..."

"It looks like the same one I've got. Did you go to Heaven too?"

Edgar was staring intently down at his hands. He rubbed over his knuckles and skin, shaking quite hard.

He didn't speak for almost a minute.

"I...suppose I did," he whispered.

"Really?" Johnny smiled in an excited way. "What was it like? Did you see the same places I saw? Wasn't God a fat stupid..."

_Oh yeah._  
  
"Did you like it?"

Edgar was still shaking like a leaf. He didn't look at Johnny once while he spoke. "It...wasn't exactly what I was expecting, I guess."

"Did you see the place where everyone was just sitting and doing nothing?"

He nodded, his fingers twisting over one another.

"How long were you there? I guess this answers my question about whether or not that really happened. Huh! I can't believe I didn't see you."

Edgar forced a laugh. "Yeah...funny, that."

_Probably shouldn't mention the head-exploding. I don't think he'd find that funny._ "I went to Hell, actually. After Heaven."

He cracked a knuckle and, from his resulting expression, Johnny guessed it wasn't on purpose.

"It was a horribly stupid place. You'd hate it there. The Devil is mean, too. He..." _I'm not sure if Edgar really knows what was going on before...I don't think he'd understand if I went into detail._ "He told me some things, but he said I got to come back for some reason, so..."

_Oh yeah, he said something about hair._

He ran a hand over his scalp and found it almost completely bare. _I guess I should have expected that. No wonder my head's cold._

"What did the Devil say to you?" Edgar met his eyes for a few seconds, but then returned to rubbing his hands.

_I might as well explain, it doesn't apply to me anymore. _"...I did talk before about how I felt like...I was losing my focus in a way? And I think, when we first met, I talked about how there was something on the other side of the wall..."

"You needed my blood," Edgar said to himself.

"Exactly. Well, it turns out that thing...it was kind of complicated, but basically I was a glorified hate-funnel. The particulars of it aren't important. Someone made a mistake..." Johnny rolled his eyes. "I wasn't really supposed to be a lock and I kind of ruined things, but either way it doesn't apply anymore. I'm free!"

He expected Edgar to be excited for him, but instead he looked very pale.

"A waste-lock?"

"Yeah, that's what he called it. Why?" _He's acting suspicious. ...How did he know that?_  
  
"You weren't supposed to be a lock...?"

"No. Why?" _Why is he interested in this? He looks like someone died. Unless-_ "You didn't go to Hell, did you?"

He didn't say anything.

"WHAT?!" Johnny leaned forward and startled Edgar enough to nearly cause him to fall out of his chair. "You didn't go to Hell, did you?!"

There was that frightened look.

"I...they said there was some kind of mix-up, they weren't sure where I was supposed to go, I don't know why I went there myself I-I just ended up there-" Edgar held up his hands as if Johnny was the person to be afraid of now.

_No no NO, why would Edgar go there? That makes no sense! Edgar's a good person, he's definitely religious, of course he'd go to Heaven, why would there be a mix up, that makes no sense, what kind of fucked system are they running up there-_  
  
"There is no reason you'd go to Hell!" Johnny gestured and noted the IV line attached to his wrist again. He took hold of it and was about to tear it out before Edgar stopped him. His hands only rested against his arm for mere moments and didn't actually take hold of him at any point, but his intent was clear enough.

"I-I don't know myself. They never explained it to me, not, not very clearly." Edgar withdrew his hands and went back to toying with his fingers. "But I did see...I did see the Devil. I think. That's why I wanted to know."

"Why would the Devil want to talk to you?" Johnny brushed off his arms. "You're supposed to go to Heaven. Isn't that right?"

"Yes!" Edgar blurted out. There was an awkward silence, then Edgar buried his face in his hands. "I mean...yes, I thought so. I'm sure it was all because of the file, but...the Devil talked about waste-locks, about you. He said that waste-locks were quiet, introverted people...a threat to no one but themselves-"

_Oh shit. SHIT! _**SHIT**!  
  
"Shit! He said that to you?!"

"Yes, I-I'm not sure what he meant. Then I woke up, and I saw you-" He was trying to get off topic.

_Shit! This fucks up EVERYTHING!_  
  
"Are you okay?"

"What?"

"Are you okay?" _Maybe they won't choose him, maybe they won't fuck yes they will. God DAMMIT._ "How do you feel?"

Edgar looked baffled. Now that he thought about it, he had rarely inquired about Edgar's well-being, so...

"I...I feel fine right now. Are you okay?"

"It's not important." _Fuck. What do I do now?_  
  
There was a pause. Edgar seemed hesitant to speak, but Johnny supposed that was because he about to tear the paper sheets to shreds.

"But anyway, I woke up and saw you and...I wasn't sure if you were okay, so I took you here to make sure..."

"I can't believe this..."

Edgar ran a hand through his hair again. "I didn't think you'd like hospitals."

"It's not that."

_God, he's not going to be able to tell. It's just going to happen like it did with me, really slow and subtle like. Shit. Will I be able to tell? Those stupid fucks, whoever runs this fucking shitpile of a system, I can't fucking believe they're taking him instead of me fuck FUCK YOU_  
  
"Nny..."

He looked down and noticed that he _was_ tearing the sheets apart at this point.

_I ruined the system before. They said I was a mistake and that I ruined things for them before...Fuck if anything I can ruin it now. They're not getting him without a fight, he didn't fucking do anything to deserve this. I won't let this happen._  
  
"Nny, do you want to go?"

"Shit." He spat. "Can we?"

"Actually..." Edgar adjusted his glasses. "I don't think we can go just yet. The orderly probably has to clear you to leave and I bet there are more papers to sign...I probably shouldn't have said that."

There was a long pause. Johnny collected the shreds of the sheets into a small pile and Edgar watched as they both tried to find something to say.

"Will you be here?"

"What?"

"The whole time. Are you just going to wait for me here?"

Edgar looked down before apparently deciding on what to say. He made eye contact and sighed.

"Yes."

_A single word can say a lot._  
  
Another long pause.

"What was the last thing we argued about?" _It feels like a black and white photograph._  
  
"The last..." Edgar rested his head on one hand. "Hmm...If I recall correctly, I think...you were upset because I..."

That perpetual awkwardness around what shouldn't have been a delicate subject. _God, that seems so far away now..._

"I said that...what you did wasn't important to me, but rather...the person behind those actions. To put it briefly." Edgar scratched the scars beneath his eyes. "You said that your actions were all you had left..."

_And now, my actions are my own. I can do anything. I can do everything. I'm not under anyone's control anymore, my actions are truly my own._  
  
"The person behind the actions..."

"Yes."

"Do you still believe that?"

Edgar looked at his fingertips after they left his scars, then looked at Johnny.

"Yes, I do."

Johnny ripped the IV out of his wrist.

"All right, let's go."


	16. Down

Edgar had been so distracted taking Johnny to the ER that he hadn't really noticed it was raining. Then again, previously it had only been drizzling. Now the rain was coming down with more force. This made it harder to ignore and harder to drive in general. Navigating the wet streets was not something Edgar was looking forward to.

Johnny hadn't said much to him when they had left the hospital. Edgar apologized for those pushed out of Johnny's way or those who became subject to a litany of epithets and inappropriate similes. He had made a mental note later on to return to the hospital and make sure everything was in order and to apologize more thoroughly for Johnny's behavior and to some extent his own. After all, he had done very little to stop Johnny, only compensating after he had committed the act.

_You do have such a gift for describing your "relationship" with Nny._

_God, everything's a comparison to our relationship with you. Can't you think of something else?  
_  
A minor, temporary victory of silence, but a victory nonetheless.

Edgar had intended on asking Johnny if he wanted his wrist bandaged, considering the blood, but instead he picked up a roll of gauze on their way out and didn't say anything.

_That is unbelievably passive. You set the standard, Edgar, I'm not joking.  
_  
Most of Johnny's verbal outrage was expressed at helpless patients. No words were directed at Edgar, but many referred to him in passing.

Now free of other people and en route to the parking lot, Johnny was completely silent. He didn't look at Edgar. His thin hands held onto his shoulders tightly and he shivered, although there wasn't enough money in the world that could persuade Edgar to point that out to him in so many words.

Something noncommittal, something general...

"I have a blanket in the trunk." Edgar attempted to phrase his words so that it sounded as if he was just as interested in the blanket as he was sure Johnny would be.

Edgar couldn't stand the next awkward pause for more than a few seconds. "It's for emergencies."

Finally Johnny met his eyes. The two remaining strands of his hair were plastered to his face, thin lines dark enough to be seen in the failing light. Without his hair, he looked frailer somehow. Thinner, if that was possible.

Although he looked anything but pleased, Edgar was almost sure that his displeasure was not his fault.

He unlocked the car and watched as Johnny immediately curled up in the passenger seat and wrapped his arms around his knees. Edgar then turned, popped the trunk, and fetched the emergency blanket from between the bottles of water and a small battery powered radio.

_You're prepared for so many things that will never happen.  
_  
It was an ugly plaid thing, dark dingy green with streaks of red and yellow that faded as rain dulled their color. Edgar thought back on what could have possessed him to buy such a remarkably hideous blanket, but memories of a sale quickly quieted his distaste.

He shrugged his shoulders as if someone was watching him.

He circled around to his side of the car. Johnny's head immediately turned to follow his motion as he slid into his seat and shut the door. The lights blinked off, leaving them in relative darkness. Before Edgar could think about what he was doing, he shook his head back and forth in an effort to clear away water. Water droplets spattered everywhere.

After realizing that he had potentially done something quite stupid, he turned to Johnny to only find him staring. Whether or not he felt that or cared Edgar couldn't tell with the limited light. At that point, the scratchy fabric against his hand reminded him of what he brought with him.

"Here."

He handed the blanket to Johnny then immediately busied himself getting the car started, hoping he hadn't made a mistake.

_Well, the blanket isn't pressed against your face and cutting off your air supply, so I'd say that's pretty positive.  
_  
When the engine started the dashboard lights came on, providing a bit more light in the darkness but not a great deal. Edgar turned to glance at Johnny while he was getting ready to back up. At the moment, Johnny was using the blanket to dry himself off as best he could. When he finished the blanket quickly ended up wrapped around most of his body, leaving only Johnny's head visible.

_That's a cute visual. Too bad you don't have the time to appreciate it.  
_  
When Edgar pulled onto the main streets, he realized he wasn't sure where to go. A glance at Johnny when a car's headlights provided enough illumination showed his eyes were closed. Edgar was sure he wasn't asleep, but he didn't want to bother him anyway.

Truth be told, Edgar wanted to go home. He wanted to sleep in his own bed and try to write off all the bizarre things that had happened. The question was whether or not Johnny wanted to join him or wanted to go home himself.

_He's said he's so unhappy at home..._

_Yes, that's why you want him to stay with you. Of course it is.  
_  
They drove in silence, the only sound the rhythmic beating of the windshield wipers, the passing rush of air as a car drove by, and the pouring rain. Edgar normally listened to the news when he was driving, but again he didn't want to bother Johnny.

This silence, at least, did not feel as awkward as some of the others. It felt more natural, more tolerable. They were both engaged in their own activity in a way, so this kind of silence was expected. Considering the amount of horrible pauses in their relationship, this was a definite improvement.

He didn't know where to go. He looped the same streets in his neighborhood. If Johnny noticed he made no indication.

_Driving in the rain. Is this what you wanted, Edgar? Is this what you were dreaming of when you dragged his corpse to the hospital?_

_He wasn't dead._

_Semantics._

__Could just see Johnny out of the corner of his eye.  
_  
Why does it matter to you what I want?  
_  
_A bit more of an aggressive bite there, good for you. However, turning the question back on me won't really work in this situation. I'm sure even you will concede that it's not my fault that you're in your current situation, wasting gas and time while driving with impaired vision._

_Look at him.  
_  
Edgar wasn't sure who he was talking to as that thought crossed his mind. It wasn't directed at Scriabin, surely. How long had it been since Edgar had actually talked to himself?

_Excuse me?  
_  
Edgar sighed and let up on the gas as taillights darted in front of his car without warning. He understood that people drove differently in the rain and that some recklessness could be expected, but it felt like nobody had signaled for any of their turns the entire drive. It was frustrating and more thana little nerve-wracking. The multiplication of lights did not particularly help him in this department, although if it got too bad he could look over the top of his glasses. Blurry globs of light were easier to handle at times than jagged pairs of lights.

Movement from the seat next to him grabbed his attention. He opened his mouth to say something, but then decided against it.

A thin arm came from the depths of the blanket and pointed. Edgar squinted through rain and fractured light to see a sign marking a freeway off-ramp.

He looked at Johnny and Johnny looked back at him. He couldn't read his expression.

_Why the freeway?_

_This isn't a question of "will I get on the freeway" is it?_ Scriabin sighed.

_I wonder how long it's been since someone has driven Nny around..._

_More importantly, will this freeway take him to his house? You just can't focus on the important things, can you?_

_I don't think this freeway comes near Todd's house. I don't think that's why he wants me to get on here._

_Well, you two are spending such quality time together, sitting in a car saying and doing almost nothing. Maybe this is what he wants.  
_  
Scriabin intended sarcasm, but Edgar paused.

_In a way, I think you're right.  
_  
Scriabin sighed again, this time almost in thought. _That's a first. How long do you intend to drive in these horrible conditions to satisfy Johnny's vague desires?  
_  
Edgar checked his mirrors, turned on his blinker, and looked over his shoulder. Sure that his lane was clear, he carefully moved into it and flicked his signal off. Even if no one else was signaling, he at least could.

A flash of light in the sky. Edgar gave it a glance before returning to the road. Johnny tensed from the corner of Edgar's eye and an ominous rumbling shook the car.

_We're going to my house tonight._

~~~

"Where are all the parking spaces?"

He didn't intend to say that out loud. He had been repeating it to himself mentally with growing agitation much to Scriabin's amusement, but he didn't intend to say it out loud.

Johnny looked at him but didn't say anything.

Edgar took a few seconds to regret giving voice to his frustration, but it was only a few more before it was quickly forgotten. He circled the block around his apartment building for what felt like the millionth time.

_It doesn't make any sense. This doesn't make any sense! There's never anyone parked on this street! I always park in the same place! Do I have to have my name written on it? Who are all these people anyway and what are they doing here? Is someone's party so huge that the entire block has to be filled with cars? Can't these people carpool?  
_  
Occasionally Scriabin would try to break in with a comment, but Edgar didn't let him talk. His thoughts ran on rapid angry circles, repeating themselves with no resolution. Regardless of how many times he could internally curse everyone who had parked in a one mile radius around his home, it didn't change the fact that there was simply nowhere to park.

Johnny didn't give any indication that he noticed what was going on or Edgar's growing frustration. He stared out the window, although Edgar wasn't sure at what.

_You're getting-_

_I can't believe this-_

_You're getting awfully tempera-_

_How many people have to park in this one area-_

_You're getting angry awfully quickly._

_I-_

_You're normally much more composed than this.  
_  
Edgar finally let his thoughts slow. The moment that the repeating thoughts began to cease, his feelings quickly followed. The anger and frustration began to fade as his attention went elsewhere and his grip on the steering wheel loosened. His fingers tingled.

_That's better._

_I just, I can't believe-_

_Yes, I think we've established that already. I'm curious though, why exactly does this bother you so much?  
_  
_Is it so hard to see?_ Residual anger. He could almost feel Scriabin's surprise at his lack of passivity. _I don't want to walk in the rain, but it looks like we're going to have to walk a block or two or three before we can actually get inside!  
_  
There was a pause, but before Edgar could resume his internal rant Scriabin spoke again.

_How does Nny fit into all of this?_

_I don't want him to get wet either, it's not convenient-_

_Oh that's not true.  
_  
Edgar stared at the one space that was open three blocks away as he circled again. Driving with his glasses like this had given him a nasty headache.

_This would normally be a good opportunity to poke at one of your particular sore spots, but I'm...I must admit I'm a little...well, surprised sounds too strong. I'm intrigued by your emotions right now concerning our maniac. The reason that you don't want Nny to walk in the rain doesn't seem to be that Nny could kill you for it.  
_  
_What difference does it make?_ Edgar sighed in frustration. Johnny again turned to look at him, but only for a few seconds before staring out the window again.

_A good question._ Scriabin didn't sound as sarcastic as he usually did...perhaps he was more surprised by Edgar's attitude than he let on. _The motive for so much of your behavior has been your fear of dying. But for once, this isn't it. I don't think Nny's welfare is your primary concern at this point either.  
_  
_What's your point? _He tightened his grip on the steering wheel again as he eyed that same open spot. It was close to a fire hydrant...not close enough, but it was still something he would have to consider. The last thing Edgar wanted to cap this evening was a ticket.

_It may come as a shock, but I don't think I had one, not the way you're thinking. I was merely pointing out something I thought was interesting, that's all._ Scriabin sounded amused.

He was going to have to park here.

_I'm glad you think it's interesting._ Edgar's mental voice dripped venom, and for a moment he stopped.

_I've never heard you use that tone with me before. Well, except for that one time.  
_  
Johnny turned to look at Edgar, but Edgar didn't meet his eyes. He rested his hand on Johnny's headrest and looked over his shoulder.

He'd have to parallel park.

_It doesn't really suit you, I'm afraid._ He sounded as if he was about to start laughing again.

"This isn't where you live."

Johnny hadn't spoken for what felt like, and could have been, hours. Edgar still didn't look at him, focusing on getting his car into the narrow space without incident.

"I know, I can't find a better parking spot. We're going to have to walk."

He normally would have controlled his voice better, would have removed the edge of frustration and anger that could prove lethal, but he didn't.

"Oh." Johnny stared at him hard.

There was silence, internal and external, as Edgar set his parking brake and turned off the engine.

For a few moments, no one said anything. Johnny continued staring at him.

Edgar let out a deep sigh, and familiar processes came and kept his voice neutral again, thought over his words before he spoke.

"I don't have an umbrella."

"That's okay."

Edgar blinked and looked at Johnny.

_He seemed so irritated by the rain before.  
_  
"Are you sure?"

"Yes." Johnny turned away and stared at his door. "It's only rain."

Edgar pulled his hands from the steering wheel and winced for a moment as feeling rushed back into his fingers.

_Yeah, that's right. It is...what came over me?  
_  
Edgar ran a hand through his hair. It felt strange over his fingers.

"Are you ready?"

Johnny nodded.

Edgar unlocked the doors and stepped outside. As if in vengeance for his disparaging mental commentary, the rain was pouring down even harder now. In moments Edgar was soaked and felt miserable. His head pounded, although now thankfully the stress of driving was gone. His eyes felt tired and dry.

He heard a click from the other side of the car, the momentary beeps of warning, and then the slam of the door.

When he joined Johnny on the sidewalk, he noticed that he had brought along the blanket he had been wrapped in. At the moment, he was holding it over his head as makeshift protection. It wasn't particularly effective, considering the strength of the rain.

Edgar began to walk towards his apartment when something caught his sleeve. He turned back in time to see Johnny's hand retreating.

Johnny opened his mouth as if to say something, but then decided his actions would have to do. He took the edge of the blanket and held it out to him.

Edgar stared at Johnny in disbelief.

_Is he...is he offering to share the blanket with me?_

_You know, I think I remember reading a story about this once...but that one involved a cabin in the woods in the snow and one blanket._

_Why would he do that?_

_Actually, I read it more than once-_

_Pay attention when I'm talking to you!  
_  
He could hear Scriabin catch his breath.

_Why would he do that?!  
_  
He didn't answer.

Johnny was still staring at him, and this wasn't the time or place to think. Edgar took the offered edge of the blanket.

It was awkward, the two of them underneath the ineffective scratchy shielding. They brushed against each other constantly and it was difficult to walk. Edgar tended to walk a little faster than Johnny did, or maybe he just had a longer stride. Something. It was uncomfortable and more than a little useless, considering the blanket was quickly soaked and provided no protection.

That didn't really matter, though.

_Why would he do this-  
_  
"Are you okay?" Johnny had to raise his voice to be heard over the hiss of rain. Edgar turned to look at him for a few seconds before focusing on his feet again.

"Am I okay?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah, I guess."

"You sounded upset before."

"I..."

_He noticed?  
_  
"I was just frustrated." The two of them stumbled across a street and a car honked at them. He could feel Johnny tense beside him at the noise and could imagine the gruesome scenario he had planned for the driver.

"Are you okay now?"

"I guess."

_Why is he asking me this? He's never asked about me before._

_I'm as puzzled by his concern as you are. It's never been his strong suit. He is a sociopath, after all._

_Shouldn't that be psychopath?_

_Is that what's important?  
_  
Johnny bumped into his side and then immediately moved away. The blanket prevented him from getting the space he desired, but he didn't attempt to take it away from Edgar.

"You don't get like that."

"Like what?" _Only a few buildings away...  
_  
"You don't get frustrated like that."

Edgar paused. He wanted to glance over at Johnny to see what he was doing, but he had to focus on where he was walking. "Not usually, I guess."

Silence.

Finally, the two of them reached the small apartment building. Someone in front had managed to crash their car into a telephone pole. How someone could be so careless was beyond Edgar, but he guessed he could blame the rain to some extent. A thick crowd of people and cameras had gathered around the wreckage, all just staring blankly at the ruined car and splintered wood.

Edgar thought about the last time he had seen a broken telephone pole and shuddered before forcing the thought away.

"This is it, isn't it?" It was hard to hear over the rain.

"Yeah." Edgar dug his keys out of his pocket and unlocked the door. Within moments both were inside and the door was shut. The wash of heat was welcome, along with the dryness and sudden quiet.

Edgar shook himself dry and was pretty sure that Johnny did as well, although he didn't see it.

"Glad I'm not going out again in that." Edgar didn't intend the statement for anyone in particular.

_Talking to yourself again? It's hard to do that when you have an audience._

"I wonder what those people outside are doing." A statement directed to no one, just as Edgar's. Johnny held the sopping wet blanket gingerly in his hands. "What should I do with this?"

Edgar ran a hand through his hair a few times to shake out water. "Um...take it with you, I'll run it through the dryer later and put it back in the car."

They walked the rest of the distance to his apartment in silence. Edgar had just opened his front door when the power went out.

"Damn it!"

_Such language, Edgar!  
_  
"What's wrong?" Johnny's hands quickly found his arm and then pushed against his face, knocked his glasses off.

"I'm fine, you just- nnh, hold on." Edgar knelt down to try and find where his glasses had went. Again he felt a surge of annoyance that he had hoped to leave outside.

_Figures the power would go out. When was the last time we had a storm like this? The power around here is always shoddy anyway, I bet that idiot who hit that pole out front had something to do with it-_

_Jesus, get over it.  
_  
Johnny's hands on his back. "Where are you? What are you doing?"

"You knocked my glasses off, I'm just- aha!" Edgar slid his glasses back on. "There we go."

It wasn't until they were back on that he remembered that they'd be essentially useless in the dark.

"What happened?"

"The power's out...this happens sometimes," he said with a sigh. Edgar walked the rest of the way inside. Johnny latched one hand into the fabric of his coat and followed.

_I guess that's as easy a way to keep track of someone in the dark as any.  
_  
"The storm..."

"Yeah. I've got a lamp around here somewhere, let's see..."

Whenever Edgar took a step, he had to wait for Johnny to follow along with him. His progress across his living room was jerky and difficult. Halfway across he remembered he hadn't shut the front door.

_I'll deal with it later.  
_  
"Where's the closet..." Edgar held out his hands in an effort to navigate the room and managed to bark his shins on every single low-slung object in his possession.

"Edgar..."

"Ah, here it is!" Edgar finally found the doorknob.

"Edgar, am I staying here?"

He pulled open the door and a box landed on his foot.

"Ah-, fucking-!"

_My goodness, am I going to have to monitor the T.V. shows you watch? Who taught you such language?  
_  
"What?"

It was more surprise than pain that prompted his outburst. "Just a box, it's nothing. What did you ask me again?" After moving the box to one side, Edgar began poking through his possessions as best he could. He always ended up putting old things in the closet, and he was sure that he would have put the emergency lantern in there as well.

_Edgar, Boy Scout.  
_  
"Am I staying here?"

"Oh..." Edgar jerked a bit and knew that Johnny felt that through his coat. "I..."

_I'd suggest you tell the truth, but frankly you never did give a good reason for this plan of yours.  
_  
"Well, it's raining and I...I remember how you said you didn't like going home, and it's probably still..."

_That's right, all the evidence of whatever it was that happened is still there. Speaking of which, I want to talk to you about that-  
_  
"I just thought it'd be better if we stayed here, that's all. I probably should have asked you if that was okay first, but you...you didn't look like you wanted to be disturbed."

He could hear rain beating against the windows in his bedroom, and the sound of their clothes dripping water on the floor.

Johnny still held onto his coat.

"I hope it's not too much of a bother or anything." Ah, there it was. Edgar set to work untangling the lantern from the other things he had in his closet. "If you want me to, I'll take you home. But I really want to get some sleep tonight, in my own bed, so I'd just go back home. I hope that's okay."

_He didn't ask you if you'd stay with him at his house.  
_  
He pulled the lantern free and stood. He turned to where he approximated Johnny to be.

"Is it okay?"

"I...guess." He sounded distracted.

Edgar shrugged. "All right. Let's get this set up..."

He made his way back to the living room again, Johnny stumbling along behind him. He nearly knocked him over a few times before they made it to his coffee table. Once there, Edgar set the lantern down and began to feel along its base.

"I hope this thing still works...it's for emergencies, so I don't check it often..."

There was the switch. A click, and then the double tubes began to flicker to life. Blue light began to build and glow, and Johnny let go.

"Thank God this at least works. I don't want to wander around here in the dark." He rubbed at one of his shins without thought. The lantern's light was strong and looked as though it would last through however long this blackout would be.

Johnny's face appeared across from him.

"Edgar."

There was that serious tone of voice. Edgar adjusted himself so that he was sitting down properly before responding.

"Yes?"

"Do you have any dry clothes?"

Edgar sniffled then laughed softly. "That's right, the dryers won't work...yeah, we should get changed."

Johnny tilted his head when Edgar laughed and studied him for a few seconds.

"Show me where."

"All right." Edgar stood up and picked up the lantern. Johnny followed him into his bedroom, but now kept a respectable distance between them.

At this point Edgar noticed that he was wearing his coat. Had he had it on the whole time? When did he put it on?

He dug a hand into one pocket and felt warm plastic. Scriabin.

_You don't remember? Not a good sign._

_When did...was it back when...  
_  
Edgar didn't actually watch his hand's progress, but as he walked by his desk he put Scriabin back in place. It was a quick motion that was unexplainably natural. A motion he didn't question or think twice about, just as when he shrugged his way out of the sodden trench coat and let it fall to the floor.

Johnny bumped into his back. Edgar glanced back at him, but found that Johnny was looking around Edgar's room again. Maybe he just wasn't paying attention.

As Edgar went to his closet, he heard something clatter on his desk.

"What're you doing?"

"Nothing."

He doubted that, but resumed searching anyway.

_I can see this night is going to be anything but pleasant.  
_  
He finally pulled out one of his gray shirts. "Will this work?"

Johnny held out his hands, which Edgar took as an affirmative. It didn't take long to find all the required articles of clothing. Johnny didn't refuse any that Edgar offered.

"I'm going to need your light," Johnny said after a few moments of silence. Edgar nodded.

"You should change first I suppose. You can just leave your clothes there, I'll get them dry when the power comes back."

Edgar walked through the darkened hallways of his apartment and noticed how his only indication that he was being followed were the soft dripping noises. Stealth. Maybe that was how Johnny had managed to capture him so long ago...

_God, it feels like that happened to someone else now.  
_  
He handed him the lantern and opened the bathroom door for Johnny, who walked in and shut it without saying anything. Edgar stared for a few seconds, but then sat down.  
_  
It's too bad he's not taking a shower._

_What? _Edgar raised an eyebrow.

_I said, it's too bad he's not taking a shower._

_What the-, why not?_

_Because it would obviously make better fantasy material if he were taking a shower, of course.  
_  
Edgar rested his head against one hand. _Not this again._

_Can't you just see it? Johnny in all his naked glory just standing there. Well, actually, I don't have to picture it for you. You can already see it.  
_  
Edgar sighed deeply. _I'm not in the mood for this. Really._

_What are you in the mood for?  
_  
Another sigh. _Can't you just be quiet for a few minutes? For tonight? Can't you ever let anything rest?_

_Why are you asking me?_

_Are we going to go over that power thing again? I don't feel like this. I don't want to talk about it right now._

_How many times have I heard that. You know, he's right there on the other side of that door._

_And...?_ Edgar gestured with one hand, even though no one was watching.

_I don't have to fill in the rest, Edgar. You already have. Just those quick seconds of fantasy running through your mind._

_I wasn't thinking of anything._ Edgar scratched underneath his eyes. He felt cold and clammy and he was starting to shiver. Dry clothes would be wonderful right now. _I really wasn't, I'm too tired._

_You're really not in the mood for this, are you?_

_I already said that._

_Usually you get a bit more upset. Are you just not listening?_

_I'm just tired. I feel drained, okay? I just want to get some sleep._

_Will Johnny be joining you?  
_  
A finger caught painfully on the edge of one of his scars and he gasped and pulled his hand away. He immediately felt closer, but he didn't feel any blood.

_Just a matter of finding the right button, isn't it?_

_Ugh, just leave me alone..._ Edgar pressed a hand over his eyes.

_Wouldn't that be perfect? Wouldn't it?  
_  
The bathroom door opened. Johnny looked down at him and Edgar met his eyes for a few seconds. He could see that the clothes he had picked out for Johnny hung awkwardly on his thin frame. He looked out of place and uncomfortable, and Edgar didn't particularly blame him.

Johnny sat down across from him, set the lantern down on the floor, and Edgar got up and went into the bathroom. He eased the door shut almost silently, although in retrospect he wasn't sure why.

_Awkward silences are your specialty.  
_  
Without the lantern, the bathroom was completely and totally dark. It hadn't occurred to him to ask Johnny if he could take it. He shuffled his feet for a few seconds and soon found Johnny's discarded clothes.

He looked back at the door as if somehow, Johnny could develop x-ray vision and see what he was contemplating.

_You haven't really indulged such paranoia in a while. It's refreshing.  
_  
Edgar knelt down and felt around carefully. He pulled Johnny's shirt free from the pile. The fabric was thicker than he remembered.

_What on earth are you doing.  
_  
Edgar stood and felt around for his hamper. _I'm not sure how long the power will be out...it could be out for days. They won't dry faster just in a pile on the floor...  
_  
For once, Scriabin didn't respond. Edgar got the impression that it was because he was just completely dumbfounded. That was a pleasant thought.

It was a little awkward in the dark, but manageable. He laid the shirt flat across the top of the hamper, arranged the tattered sleeves so they fell to each side.

_Makes you wonder where he put his knives, doesn't it? And you're paying an unsettling amount of attention to detail.  
_  
Edgar shook his head and picked up the rest of Johnny's clothes. He didn't poke through these as he had for the shirt, considering that Scriabin did have a point. He wasn't sure where Johnny's knives were and he didn't want to cut himself.

_Or are you just afraid of your curiosity?_

_My what? What are you talking about?  
_  
Edgar threw the remaining soaked articles of clothing over the bar on the shower door.

_What does he keep under his clothes, do you think?  
_  
Edgar felt heat come to his face with a familiar stab of anger, and he busied himself pulling off his wet shirt to hide it.

_Knives, obviously. Probably other weaponry. It wouldn't surprise me, he does keep that one knife in his boot._

_It's a river in Egypt, Edgar._

_Shut up.  
_  
Once out of his wet clothes, he stood naked for a few seconds. His eyes were acclimating to the dark and he was able to see a little more than before, and he stared at his shirt near his feet. He wanted to set it out to dry, but found that he wasn't moving. He just kept staring. Maybe it was the lack of weight and cold that kept him motionless for those few seconds. He felt a great deal better and the slight warmth was comforting.

_Can you just imagine, the heat goes out and the two of you have to huddle together for warmth-  
_  
Enough to move. Edgar closed his eyes and began to put on his dry shirt.

"Just stop," he whispered.

_Oh, that's not fair. I can't speak to you verbally from where I am currently. Not that it particularly matters.  
_  
He had never really appreciated dry fabric until now. He was finally beginning to feel warm again. He laid out his wet clothes on the floor.

_How would he ask you, I wonder? Would you just be asleep and he'd just sneak in real quiet? Would he sit and have one of your heart-to-heart chats where you reveal nothing to each other about anything? Or would he just knock you unconscious and go from there? He's done it before._

_He didn't do anything to me that time-_

_He bandaged your head._

_That's entirely different._

_He's so cold, isn't he?_ _You've noticed. Maybe he'll ask you. What would you say? What would you say if he asked if he could sleep in your arms, Edgar?  
_  
"Shut up. Just stop it right now. I can't do this now." Edgar had backed away from the door as much as possible and had his hands to his temples. He was trying not to speak but somehow it wasn't working. He kept hissing between his teeth.

_He seemed so affectionate. He shared the blanket with you, even if it didn't do anything. That was just darling, don't you think? Maybe it wouldn't be impossible. Maybe he will ask you. So we return back to my original question, the one you avoided before so well. If it makes him happy, Edgar, how far will you go?  
_  
"Stop it!"

A knock at the door caused Edgar to jump.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing, I'll be right out."

_Wow, I hope that wasn't suspicious or anything._

_God, I hate you.  
_  
Edgar opened the door. Johnny sat beside the lantern in the hallway and stared up at him. He was curled in a loose ball with his arms resting on his knees. The sleeves of Edgar's shirt were way too long and he looked smaller and thinner than he actually was.

Edgar shut the door behind him as silently as before. "What now?"

Johnny still stared at him.

_Well, this was your idea, Edgar. You think of something.  
_  
"Are you okay?" Johnny's voice was hoarse. Edgar decided that this was as good a place as any and sat down across from him.

"Yes, I'm fine. Why do you keep asking me that?" Edgar hadn't meant to say that. His hand rose to cover his mouth, but instead he scratched at his throat.

There was a long pause. A crack of thunder above made them both jump. Johnny's hand immediately grasped at his side for a knife that wasn't there.

_I wonder where he left it.  
_  
It took a little while for Johnny to settle back down again.

Another pause. Edgar waited. He was relatively sure that Johnny was going to speak again and that he wasn't just wasting his time.

_It's cute that you're almost sure.  
_  
He waited. The two of them sat almost perfectly still. Finally, Johnny moved slightly, turned his eyes down to his feet.

"I told you before...I told you before about what I wanted to do to you."

Edgar nodded, then realized that Johnny might not catch that in the dark. "Yeah."

"I'm in...I'm having some trouble. A problem, you might say. A complication. I'm a bit...confused about where I'm going now. About what I should do."

Edgar was silent for a minute as he tried to decide what to say. "I'm listening."

_That sounds so trite.  
_  
"I want our...well, I explained before. I wanted something in my life to be perfect." Johnny stared hard at his hands. "But I'm worried now that maybe I missed it. Maybe I didn't act fast enough. Maybe that opportunity, that beautiful opportunity passed me by while I was distracted, or during some time when I just...do you understand?" Johnny didn't wait for Edgar to answer. "I'm concerned that everything that I've been working for has fallen apart...that I already reached that peak and I missed it. I faltered, I waited, I missed it...and I ruined the one thing I wanted. I ruined the...I wanted something and I'm not sure...maybe I don't even know what I want anymore."

Edgar sighed softly. His feet were inches away from Johnny's. The hallways here were always too narrow.

"I'm worried that I've done what I always thought was inevitable. I know it, I know I always do this, and that's why I wanted to stop it, but then I...maybe I was just too... Maybe I was too selfish. Broken. Maybe this is all some self-pitying shit so I don't have to take the blame for it. I told you. I told you that I would break things, I told you that's all I could do, and I think I did. I think I did and I don't know how to fix it. I think I ruined everything. I can't do it. I can't freeze this, I can't freeze this guilt and remorse and these endless questions. I can't do that, that's just what I wanted to avoid. That's just what I didn't want, and that's how everything ends..." Johnny lifted a hand and pressed it against one eye. "Everything...everything always..."

"Nny..."

"I've destroyed something beautiful...I keep doing this. I keep breaking things I love. I keep desecrating my own shrines. I keep doing this. I had so many chances, I had so many chances not to ruin things, not to ruin you, and nothing..."

"Johnny, listen..."

"Maybe it was all..."

"Johnny, calm down. It's okay." Edgar didn't hide the concern in his voice. "It's okay. I'm okay."

"No you're not," Johnny said softly. "My actions are finally my own, I finally have complete and total control over my thoughts and my desires and I don't know what to do...I don't know what to do."

"Nny, I'm okay. I'm not sure what you're talking about, but I'm not ruined."

_You do know what he's talking about.  
_  
Johnny looked at him for a few seconds before returning to studying the fabric of his unfamiliar clothes.

"Nny, I'm not...ruined. I don't consider myself ruined, anyway. I've never thought of myself that way, and I've never thought of our relations- well, our friendship really, I never thought of that as a negative force in my life."

_Liar.  
_  
Johnny turned his eyes back to him.

"I don't consider you...no, I don't think of you as a negative force. I feel the same as I have before. I still feel...internally consistent I guess you could say. I know that I was frustrated back before, but I've been frustrated before...it's nothing unusual, it was just the first time that you ever saw it. I wasn't angry at you or anything you did, I don't want you to think that. It wasn't your fault by any means...I'm not sure exactly how you think you've ruined things, but in my perspective, I really think...well, I mean in general, I think we're at a good place. In terms of everything, I mean."

_That doesn't even mean anything. You're ineloquent.  
_  
"How do you feel..." Johnny mumbled. Edgar wasn't sure if that was directed at him or not.

"I feel...what exactly do you mean?"

"I'm just...I'm not sure what to do. This isn't...this isn't perfection. I know it isn't. I know that there are better things than what we have now. I know that there is better, I've seen it. I know it's there. I want it. I want it more than anything. I want perfection. I want you..."

_The right way. I want you, but I want you to want me too._

_SHUT UP.  
_  
"I want you to be...like them. I want it to be beautiful. But I can't do that now. This isn't beautiful, this is..." Johnny picked at the sleeve of his ill-fitting shirt and made an irritated noise. "This isn't it. But if I don't do something now, if I don't do something, it could get worse. Things could get so much worse."

Edgar stared at the lamp's steady glow for a few seconds. "I know that...it doesn't work this way for you, but the way that I understood it was that...that's the risk you have to take." He hoped he didn't sound as stupid as he felt. "I don't know what you mean...I'm not sure what you're talking about. I don't feel ruined. I can't tell you if I will be in the future, although I'm not planning on it. I can't tell you the future...I can't tell you that things will be okay. I can't promise you that because I don't know myself. I don't know if things will get better. I don't know if this is really the best part, if this is really the height of us. I don't know that for sure. I can't say. The only way to know is to play it to the end."

"Does it frighten you?" Johnny's voice was emotionless.

"Does what frighten me?"

"Not knowing."

_The only thing that frightens you is what you want.  
_  
"I guess so. I don't know. Maybe. I'm willing to try."

"Would you risk that?"

"What am I risking?" Edgar shrugged.

There was a pause.

"What do you want from me, exactly?" Edgar wasn't sure where the question had come from.

Johnny didn't say anything. He stared at his feet.

"What do you want, as in...what exactly is your perfection?"

_If it made Johnny happy, how far would you go?  
_  
Johnny buried a hand in his hair and then shook his head.

_He doesn't even know. That's encouraging.  
_  
"I'm...I don't know what to do."

"About what?"

"About you."

Edgar was quiet.

"I'm worried you'll..."

_Worried?  
_  
"I feel so...!" A moment of rage, clenched fists, then Johnny relaxed back against the wall. "I just..."

Edgar crossed his arms over his knees. _I don't know what you're talking about. I don't know how to help...  
_  
Johnny stared at the carpet.

"I don't know what will happen to us or to me or to you." Edgar couldn't let the silence drag on any longer. "I don't know. But I mentioned it before...there's always a possibility for something if you keep going. If you cut something short, you could miss something better later on...something like that."

"I guess that makes sense." Johnny didn't sound like he was paying attention. "I'm cold."

Edgar ran a hand through his drying hair. "Do you want me to get you a blanket or something?"

"I can't even watch T.V. here 'cause the fucking power's out..."

Edgar sighed. Johnny was talking _at_ him again. "I think there's one in the closet. I'll go get it..."

He stood up. Johnny did not react, just stared off into the distance without expression.

_You know, you keep avoiding it..._

_Ugh, what am I avoiding now? It's always something with you, isn't it?  
_  
Edgar realized that he hadn't picked up the lantern when he got up and it seemed somewhat awkward to go back and pick it up now. To leave Johnny in the dark like that. This was his apartment after all, at least Edgar knew where everything was. Or that's what he assumed anyway.

_You're so passive._

__It didn't take too much investigation through touch in the closet to come to a conclusion.  
_  
It's not in here...I guess I can get the one off my bed.  
_  
He glanced back at Johnny, who hadn't moved. He sat perfectly still, his arms crossed over his knees, staring at something that Edgar couldn't readily determine. He probably wouldn't notice if Edgar wandered a bit further.

_He probably doesn't even know you're gone.  
_  
Edgar sighed.

_He's not that far away._

_You wish he wasn't that far away.  
_  
_God, could you get more juvenile?_ Edgar rolled his eyes as he entered his bedroom. Normally the streetlights would have provided some illumination through his window. Now all he could hear was the rain pounding against the glass.

In here at least Edgar knew what to avoid. He didn't run into anything as he made his way towards his bed.

_I don't know, could I?_ Scriabin responded in a particularly nasty tone. _It's up to you.  
_  
Edgar considered continuing the argument, then decided against it. It wasn't as if this was new ground. He pulled back his sheets and felt around for the edge of his fleece blanket. The heat in his apartment was always rather unreliable.

_At any rate... _Scriabin almost sounded disappointed that Edgar hadn't returned to the argument. _That's not what I'm really interested in right now anyway.  
_  
Edgar knocked something over when he tugged the blanket free. A pillow he was pretty sure. He gathered the blanket up in his arms and carefully walked back towards the door.

_Well then, what? What fabulously telling and sarcastic insight do you have for me now?_

_Very good, Edgar! You're getting better at this. It's so much more fun when you fight back instead of just locking up.  
_  
_Now I feel like you're avoiding the question. What is it that you want to ask me already?_

_Ah yes. My boy, what happened to you after all the time we spent together?_

_Nothing._

_Well, obviously something. How did you come back to life?_

_I don't know._

_Can't exactly fault you there. What's this dreamlike thing you keep trying to hide from me?_

_A dream, like I said before. Just a dream._

_I think you doth protest too much._

_It doesn't matter._

_What, what kind of response is that. You're not even trying._

__Johnny hadn't moved. Edgar stood awkwardly near him for a few seconds holding the blanket before he decided to sit down again. He thought that sitting beside Johnny might have been invading his personal space a little too actively, so he returned to his spot across from him. He sat down and held the blanket out to Johnny, who finally moved again. He stared at it for a few seconds in confusion.

_He probably doesn't remember being cold at all.  
_  
He eventually did take it, throwing it around his shoulders hesitantly.

"Edgar..." Johnny pulled the blanket tight around himself and didn't meet Edgar's eyes. "I want to know..."

"What?"

"What do you want?"

"...What?"

"I want to know what your perfection is. Maybe I'm not looking at this the right way. What would be your perfection? With us, I mean. With me."

Johnny looked up and stared at Edgar without blinking. A few seconds went by before Edgar realized his mouth was open.

"I...uh..."

_Whoa._

_I-I didn't think he'd ever...well, I mean, he never has before-_

_I must say this night has been rather atypical, even by my standards. Either way, you better think of a response. Actually...what would your response be? Now I'm curious myself. What would your perfection be?_

_Oh God, I can't answer this question. I need to think about this, I can't just answer this right away, I'll say something wrong-  
_  
"Edgar?"

"Uh, sorry. I'm just thinking." Frantically trying to say something non-incriminating. "I just, it's not something I thought about a lot. I mean, often. It's not something that crossed my mind often."

"It isn't?" Johnny stared at him in confusion.

_Oh shit not good not good  
_  
"I didn't mean that it wasn't impor- isn't important or anything, I didn't mean that." Edgar was talking fast. "I don't want you to think that. It's just-"_YES that's it, that's what I should have said, I've got it now._ "It's just you never asked me that question before." _There we go._ "I guess I wasn't really prepared."

Johnny did not look soothed. He continued to stare at him critically.

_You better think of something to say fast, and hopefully it won't be something so blindingly stupid this time.  
_  
"My perfection, um..."

"You don't think about that often?"

_Oh God how can I salvage this there's got to be a way_ "Well...I uh, I don't think of my relationships in terms of perfection I guess...or in terms of goals to be achieved. I hope I'm being clear. It's not so much reaching the end of something, or accomplishing something. I guess you could say that...well, how did that one phrase go...it's not when you get there, but how? I guess that doesn't precisely apply, but I hope that makes sense. It should make sense."

_God just STOP TALKING. You sound like an idiot. Calm down.  
_  
"I see." Johnny put a hand to his mouth. He looked more curious than critical now, which was an improvement with him by any stretch of the imagination. "You must have wanted something though. That's only natural. I find it hard to believe that you wouldn't have wanted something from me, or wanted something from knowing me." Johnny gave Edgar a familiar twisted smile. "While we do have our own interesting conversations, I don't think that could be your only motivation. I understand what you're saying, but I don't completely believe you. You must want something. You must be getting something from this relationship, otherwise you wouldn't be in it, correct?"

This was a familiar tone. Quickly Johnny's voice was leveling off for a rant.

"It's a necessary part of any kind of relationship for all animals, particularly the glorified human one. We all want something from each other, even if it's just as abstract as happiness." Johnny paused, then tilted his head. "You must want happiness out of this, right? That's a standard. Everyone wants to be happy, right? It would only make sense."

Edgar wasn't sure what to say to get himself out of this predicament. He scratched at his face and looked away. "U-um..."

_You know, I'm impressed with our dear homicidal friend. He's backed you masterfully into a corner.  
_  
"I'm sure that's what you would want, but that's not what I'm really interested in. That's the default of a relationship, that's what everyone's searching for. I would like to think that as real people, we're looking for something more. Something more substantial, more real. More permanent. More...powerful. You and me, you know it too. That's why you're alive, you know. You're not like the others. You must want something else. You must have a goal, some kind of perfection. Something more than the mess of a relationship that everyone else happily binds themselves to. I know it. I want to know what it is."

"I..." Edgar kept scratching, now staring intently at his feet. "I can see what you mean. I-I guess I didn't think of it that way..."

"You understand what I'm asking you then." Johnny nodded. "Maybe if I know what you really want, that will give me some clarification, some guidance as to what I should do."

_Well, you can at least pretend it's for a good cause when you finally tell the truth._

_I'm not, I can't. I have to be more careful than ever now._

_This is going to be hilarious.  
_  
Johnny's foot brushed against Edgar's, and at the contact they both jerked away.

"Uh, my perfection..."

The sound of rain far away.

"What do you want us to be?" Johnny leaned forward and stared at Edgar intently. "What do you want me to be?"

"Hmm..." He hoped that didn't sound as uncomfortable to Johnny as it did to him. "Well, you've said it yourself before...you mention it a lot. But you said something recently that made me think...you said your actions and thoughts were under your control now. Does that mean...you're not insane?"

Johnny stared at Edgar, then grinned. "I'm still quite hideously insane, I'm afraid."

He didn't want to or mean to, but Edgar sighed heavily at that. Johnny's grin faded. "I thought as much. Tell me..."

_Uncharacteristically aggressive._

_Just a question.  
_  
Edgar stared down at his carpet hard. Gray. So much gray. Something hurt but he wasn't sure what it was. "Are you still going to kill me?"

Silence.

"Of course," Johnny whispered. "Why would that change?"

"I see..."

"Edgar." His voice was still soft. "You understand, right? You understood before. You understand what it means. You understand why, don't you? You understand me, you're good at that. You know, right?"

He sounded increasingly panicky. Edgar wanted to say something calming, soothing, reassuring. Instead, his voice stayed emotionless.

"I do understand. But you wanted to know, didn't you?"

_I can't believe you actually said that.  
_  
Somehow, it seemed Johnny didn't think that Edgar's perfection would be something he didn't want to hear. He nodded reluctantly.

"Nny, I want...I want to see this to the end. I don't want to give up halfway through."

"That's not the point." He seemed desperate to change the subject. Edgar didn't exactly want to argue with him, particularly when he seemed this upset. "You don't want to stay in this relationship just for the sake of being in the relationship, do you?"

"No, of course not." He didn't think it would sound like that. "That's not-"

"I didn't think so. That's not what you really want."

_Can't argue with him now._ "Not really, I guess."

"But then what? What would be perfect for you?"

_I love you so much, Edgar.  
_  
Edgar shivered violently and he felt something sharp through his skin. A quick tingling pain beneath...

He pulled his hand away from his face at the realization he had been scratching for god knows how long. Something glinted off his fingers in the blue light.

"Oh God, not again..."

"What?"

"I just...I just, nnn...hold on." Edgar stood up, then turned to look back down at Johnny. "I'm not avoiding the question, I just need to get some bandages for this, it'll take me a few seconds."

Johnny got a good look at Edgar's face.

"Oh."

A pause to make sure there was no further objection, then Edgar went into the bathroom.

_This ought to be fun in the dark.  
_  
Edgar stumbled through the bathroom and nearly tripped over the clothes he had already forgotten about. He finally felt the sink and pulled open the medicine cabinet.

There was a creak behind him, and blue light lit the small room. He saw his face in the mirror, dark shadows emphasized by the lantern and the smear of blood across his cheekbone. Johnny stood behind him, holding the lantern with two hands.

"Thank you..." Edgar mumbled.

Johnny made a noise to acknowledge him, but didn't say anything.

It took a few minutes for Edgar to find and apply the bandages to his open cut. It wasn't the cleanest or most effective covering possible, but it would work. He turned around and Johnny was still standing in the bathroom doorway, staring at him.

"My perfection..."

_I would never hurt you._

_Stop it oh god not now not now_

_You've fixed me.  
_  
"I think..." Edgar struggled to ignore Scriabin as he made his way out of the bathroom back to the hallway. "I think it would...I think there...I think there would be no more fear."

He wasn't sure what he would say until he said it, and it didn't register until Johnny spoke.

"Fear?"

_Oh God, I hope that wasn't a mistake.  
_  
"I think that...well, I think that the most perfect place we could ever be would be when...we're not afraid of each other. Or at least, when I'm not afraid of you."

_Liar._ Scriabin sang in his head. _Liar, liar.  
_  
Johnny adjusted the blanket around his shoulders and brushed past Edgar, continuing down the hallway. Edgar saw no choice but to follow him.

"Frightened..."

"Yeah..."

"Do you think...that's possible?" Johnny walked into Edgar's bedroom. Edgar wasn't sure what he wanted, but he followed him inside.

"I think it could be, yes."

"That we could be perfect? Like the others?"

_He seems to forget that I don't know who the others were..._

__"I think it's possible."

_Edgar, you do realize that your statement could be interpreted as saying that you could, potentially, fall in love with him?_

_That's not what I meant._

_But that's what it means.  
_  
Johnny was at Edgar's window, staring outside at the cloudy sky. Maybe looking for the moon, he wasn't sure.

"You think I can do it?"

"I think we can do it. That's how it works, right?" Edgar slowly walked over and stood beside him. Johnny did not look at him, holding the blanket close with one hand and using the other to support the lantern.

There was a moment of silence, then Johnny turned towards him. Edgar instinctively matched the motion, and the two stared at each other while rain beat down inches away. The sound was much louder here...

Johnny stared at him and Edgar couldn't read the expression on his face. He had the sense that Johnny wanted something from him, but he didn't know what it was. They stood only inches apart and still Edgar couldn't read him.

Couldn't tell what he wanted.

The lantern light flickered and then a flash of lightning lit the room brightly for a second. A rumble of thunder and they didn't move.

Minutes passed. How many Edgar wasn't sure.

Edgar couldn't take his eyes away from Johnny. It was almost as if this was some kind of challenge, some kind of test, to see whether or not he was telling the truth.

_And you say I****_****_read too much into things.  
_  
Edgar would have preferred awkward silence than Scriabin speaking up again.

_And god knows, I so often listen to what you want me to do._

_I'm...I don't know what he wants. God, how long has he been staring at me?_

_Are you asking me? Ha.  
_  
_He must want something. But we've been quiet so long...I don't know how to break the silence. I can't exactly remember the last thing I said...or the last thing he said either..._

_You know, I've been giving you advice for so long now. And yet somehow, I don't exactly feel inclined to do that right now. I want answers for once._

Edgar was trying to ignore the intruder to his mental deconstruction of his current situation.  
_  
It was something about the two of us trying to...well, not exactly. Trying to make this relationship fearless. Is that what he's doing now? Not doing anything to show me that he isn't dangerous?_

_Do you honestly think he would think that far ahead? Do you honestly think this psychopath could plan that far ahead? Do you really, truly think that if you made Johnny angry for whatever stupid trivial reason, he wouldn't just kill you right now, to hell with his ideal of perfection?  
_  
_I-_

_Do you honestly think that he has that much control over himself, Edgar? He makes a big show of being able to control himself now with all that blathering about actions and consequences and what makes a person yap yap yap, but do you think anything has changed?  
_  
_..._

_Do you think anything, anything, has changed, Edgar? Do you? You can't. You can't because I would imagine you're not as stupid of an idealist as you act at times. You know, Edgar. You know as well as I do. He said so himself. He's insane. You're in no better position than before regardless of how fond Nny gets of you. He could still kill you. He will still kill you. And he could potentially try to murder you at any time in any place for any reason. Not just because you two finally exchanged some chaste kiss in an appropriately romantic setting and he put the gun to your chin and you pulled the trigger. Despite the fact that for some horrible, horrible reason you don't find that idea that reprehensible, there's a very slim chance that that will happen.  
_  
_I...  
_  
Edgar wasn't sure what he was staring at anymore. His internal conversation had drained all of his focus. Scriabin's voice was increasing in volume.  
_  
There is almost no possibility, no chance that you can survive this Edgar. And yet you still cling to this romantic ideal. God, you even said you'd work for those arsenic-laden candies. You said you wanted to help him. For God's sake, Edgar, you can't! I've told you before, you can't. Unless you can wave your hand and cure whatever sick thing is eating his mind, you will never be happy with Nny. You will never be at ease around Nny and there is no way, no way that any sane person could not be afraid of Nny. Johnny is fear. Johnny is death. He is random, unpredictable, and will come at the worst possible time. You know this Edgar._

_..._

_You are making empty promises that you're covering with even emptier pretenses. You aren't doing this for him. You've never been doing this for him, not since you relegated him to the prestigious role of Experiment in your mind. This is for you, Edgar. This is for your continued existence. This is for your worthless empty life. You can pretend and lie and do everything you want to deny it, but there is no way Edgar. There is no way that you can ever be happy with Nny. You can never be happy with him because he will always hurt you. He will always hurt you, even if you somehow do get past the whole killing you thing. Do you think that if Johnny never intended to kill you that you'd have a better relationship? Do you think that even having Johnny as a boyfriend would be possible? Do you think, do you think for even those few seconds that Johnny is even capable of loving someone at all? That he knows what to do? That he knows how to compromise, that he would ever care about you enough to modify his own behavior for your happiness, like you constantly do with him? Do you think that, Edgar? Do you!?_

_Ah...he's not..._

_Don't even bother, Edgar. That's not the point and you know it. That's not what I'm talking about. Stop holding onto illusions and listen to me. Even if Johnny doesn't kill you, he will hurt you. He will never care about you. This entire scheme of his, this entire elaborate thing is planned around his perfection, not yours. He asked you for yours because it would help him decide what to do. Johnny will kill you when he feels this relationship is perfect. And he will kill you because it will make him happy. And you haven't even contested this. You dare even entertain thoughts of some semblance of an equal relationship with him, you even try to bargain with him to regain some of yourself and you're losing. He's a maniac, a psychopath, a murderer. He can't understand other human emotions, he never will. Everyone he's ever loved he's killed, and he can't see anything wrong with that. Forgive me if I seem presumptuous, but somehow I don't think you're going to be lucky number eleven, or however many poor victims he's killed. You're not going to change a thing. You can't change him. You never could. You're being dragged along in this abusive illogical charade because you can't stand up for yourself, and you have a bad habit of believing in the impossible. You think you can fix him. You think that it won't be you. You think that just because you managed to get away from him however many times that you'll be able to make it. You'll succeed where others have failed. You'll change Johnny, God Edgar, you think you can change Johnny's entire philosophy of life, because you're that important. How can you be so naive? How can you be so stupid?  
_  
_I..._ Edgar's mouth was dry and he felt intensely dizzy. He was staring past Johnny's eyes, through them, but he didn't know at what. Light off his glasses and he was seeing double again. He wanted to lie down. _I...I don't...I don't love Johnny, I...I never have-  
_  
_That's not the point, Edgar, Jesus Christ! If I could fucking slap you across the face right now I would. Have you been paying attention at all tonight? At all? You wanted him to be alive and when Johnny said that his actions were his own and he asked you if that mattered, you said it didn't God Edgar you are buying into your own fantasy. You want to believe that Johnny can change so badly. You're pathetic. Were you paying attention? Do you know what comes out of your mouth? God, you said you wanted to help. That you wanted to try to reach whatever random definition of perfection Johnny has. You're his toy. That's what you are, that's how he treats you, Edgar. You're Johnny's toy. You're something shiny and nice, that listens but never fights back, just pull the string and he'll say whatever you want, and then when Johnny is tired of you, has had all the fun he wants to have, he'll pop your head off, he'll rip you apart like he would before. Pushing back the inevitable. Johnny has never treated you with any kind of respect and he never will. He's completely and totally self-centered. He can think of no one but himself. Maybe it's him personally or maybe it's his own faulty wiring but it doesn't particularly matter either way, because he can never care about you. Just to avoid that favorite shield of yours, even as a friend, Johnny can't care about you. He doesn't care about you. He's using you, Edgar. He's using you as a means to an end. He's using you to make himself happy. You're a toy to him Edgar, you're a plaything. He is using you Edgar, he has always been using you, and every single time he initiates contact with you, it's because he wants to use you._

_That...that's not true, nngh..._ Edgar felt something at the back of his mind. Something spreading like when he snapped his head back too fast, and he wanted to reach out a hand to steady himself. But Johnny was still staring at him, and he couldn't move. He felt sick.

_There is nothing for you in this relationship, Edgar. There never will be. You will die, and you will curse yourself for being one of the greatest fools the world has ever known because you just could not listen. You had to believe, you had to trust, and you had to let Johnny pull that string in your back that says "yes of course do whatever you want" and let him put the gun in your mouth. He just wants to hurt you, Edgar. No matter how tenderly he may express his awkward affections, presuming that he can do so at all, he will still hurt you. And he will tell you he loves you, he will touch your arm and kiss you, and maybe someday even fuck you, but it will be because those are the steps to his ultimate end. He will do these things to you, he will buy you things and be nice to you, because that way, he will be able to hurt you. The nicer he acts, the sooner he gets to tear that all-too-often silent windpipe out of your offered throat. Are you listening, Edgar? Tell me. Tell me what I'm saying isn't true. Tell me, tell me that you can look right into Johnny's eyes, now or fifty years from now, and tell me that he won't hurt you. Tell me that he won't snap. Tell me that he won't lose that fragile grip on reality he holds so precious and destroy the anchor he pretends to love.  
_  
Spinning. The room was spinning.

_Tell me, Edgar! Tell me! Or call me a liar, like you always do! Go ahead! Go ahead and try! Tell me you can trust him!  
_  
Was he moving?

_Say it, Edgar! Say it!  
_  
He hadn't been staring at anything in particular, but movement finally broke through. Edgar immediately tried to focus his attention on Johnny, but found that he couldn't hear anything.

Mouthing words. Johnny was mouthing words.

Edgar couldn't ask Johnny to lift the lamp or enunciate, and in the darkness he couldn't make it out.

He could feel Scriabin's residual resentment and anger in his mind and he knew this was far from over.

Johnny tilted his head at him slightly. "Edgar...how do you solve a problem?"

He moved, and then Edgar found he could move as well. He stumbled forward awkwardly. Johnny stepped back in surprise, the hand holding the lantern moved to one side and the other held forward as if to ward Edgar away.

_You can't say it, can you?  
_  
At that point Edgar was aware he had made some kind of strange pained noise, though he couldn't exactly pin down what it was. He pulled back from Johnny quickly, barely noticed the look of surprise on his face before he turned towards his bed. His feet dragged on the floor.

"J-just-"

"Edgar, what's wrong?"

He tripped the last few inches and he fell onto his bed heavily. His glasses landed somewhere, but it wasn't like it mattered in the dark anyway. The dizziness was pushing up beneath his eyes and he gripped fabric in his fists as tightly as he could.

_You can't tell me I'm wrong, because I'm right, Edgar. _At the sound of his voice again Edgar felt everything shift ninety degrees. _You know I am. I always have been. You never wanted to listen to me. You never followed my advice. And now look at where you are. Look at what you're doing. Look at yourself. Admit it. Admit it. I'm right. You will never be happy. You can't be happy_. _You'll never even get close.  
_  
"Unnn...shut up..." Was that...was he biting the blanket? When did he start doing that? He felt something touch his back, the clack of something on his desk.

"Edgar, what's wrong? What's happening?"

_He's not asking for you._

_God, please stop..._

_He's not asking for you._ _He's asking because if you got sick, or if you were sad, or if you were unhappy, that might put a damper on his plans. And his plans are all that matter to him. You're unimportant as a person, Edgar, you're important as a concept. You are important as long as he needs you, then you die. You are nothing to him. None of your fears, nothing about you, nothing about your life, nothing about your past or your future matters to him. You are a thing. You are a thing that he can project himself onto, you are a thing he can use for his own satisfaction. You are a wall. You are disposable, expendable, temporary. You will never be anything more to him, Edgar. You will never be anything more than a glorified wind-up doll.  
_  
_Stop...please...please...  
_  
He felt a rapid-fire series of touches across his body. A finger glanced across his arm, hands cupped his face, smoothed back his hair, tugged at the bandage accidentally, pulled at his teeth. No, pulled the blanket out of his teeth. A finger accidentally jabbed him in the eye.

"Edgar! Edgar! Edgar, stop!"

_Stop..._

_Is this what you wanted out of your life, Edgar? Is this what you wanted? Did you want to commit suicide in the most passive-aggressive way possible? God, Edgar, why. Why are you doing this to yourself? Why are you letting him do this to you? Even the little wide-eyed boy, Bwee or whatever his name was, even he protested. Even he knew enough to stay away, but no. No. You had to change things. You had to be the savior. You had to come in on a white horse, had to come in and look at you now. Look at you. You're a liar. You've lied to yourself and to me and to everyone. You've lied to Johnny because you believed he could change, and he can't. You lied to him because you said we could do this, and we can't. You know what will happen, Edgar? Do you know what will happen the next few days, years, months? You will change. You will edit your life, your speech, your time, you will cater to his every whim and he will throw you away. He will tear the life out of your body and laugh at each moment because he does not care about you. He never has. All of this, all of this was a lie. Johnny can't love. He can't love you. He can't love because to love is to not be selfish once in your life, and Johnny's love is for him. It is not_ _for_ _you. You are a tool. You are his slave.  
_  
A rumble of thunder shook the room, and Edgar couldn't remember the lightning flash that accompanied it. He could focus his eyes again, he could see, and Johnny's face hovered above his own. Even with the limited light, Edgar could tell he looked deeply concerned.

"Edgar, are you listening? Are you here? Are you okay? Fuck! Edgar, are you okay?" A constant stream of questions that Edgar just realized had been in the background of Scriabin's tirade the entire time.

Was he dreaming? Did he actually touch him? Edgar was lying on his bed properly now, and he didn't remember doing that himself. The last few minutes were a blur.

The voice in his head was silent for reasons Edgar couldn't understand. He didn't think it would last long.

"Are you okay? Oh shit, _shit_, I didn't mean to...I didn't think...it was a normal question, I thought it was a normal question. Are you okay? Can you hear me?"

And then Johnny reached out and touched his face. His fingertips touched the bandage beneath his eye, moved down his cheek. He tilted Edgar's head slightly and Edgar's viewpoint changed. He hadn't realized he had been staring fixedly in one direction.

_He...touched me...  
_  
Edgar coughed sharply and felt as if the back of his throat suffered for it. Johnny immediately pulled back his hand as if he feared he'd get bitten.

Edgar looked back at Johnny and realized he was breathing hard.

"Edgar?" Johnny's voice took on a higher pitch. "Edgar, are you awake?"

Edgar lifted one of his own hands and stared at it for a few seconds. His voice was hoarse. "I...I think so..."

"Fucking...you started...I don't even know what that was. It was like some kind of weird seizure..." Johnny trailed off, moving his eyes from Edgar to stare at something that Edgar could not readily see.

"I...I'm sorry." It was the first thing that came out of his mouth and he instantly regretted it. "I-"

"You're sorry?" Johnny's eyes snapped back to his. "Sorry for _what_?!"

"I..." Edgar slowly levered himself up. He noticed that Johnny raised a hand near him, hovered it above his skin, but did not actually touch him. A precaution. He sat up and closed his eyes for a few seconds. "I...I don't really know what just happened."

When he opened his eyes, Johnny just stared.

_You've always lied to him.  
_  
Edgar buried a hand in his hair and caught his breath. "I'm not sure...that's never happened before..."

There was a pause. Johnny shifted his position so he was sitting completely on the bed, his legs crossed.

"Never happened before..."

"No..." Edgar wanted to study Johnny's face, wanted to see how Johnny was taking this, but everything was fuzzy and dark. Too far away now.

"Edgar..." He moved, but Edgar couldn't tell how. "Do you think it'll happen again?"

"I don't know...I hope not."

_Ha.  
_  
He winced.

"What caused it?"

"I'm...not sure. I just started feeling dizzy...had to lie down." Edgar rubbed the back of his neck. "Maybe I just need to eat something..."

A short pause this time. "You don't think it was something serious?"

"Not really..." Edgar didn't look at him. "I think I'll...well, I think I can handle it."

_Ha. Yeah, you sure handled that well.  
_  
Johnny sighed after this news, and it seemed that it wasn't the bad kind. Edgar couldn't say for sure.

"What did you ask me, again?"

"What?"

"You asked me something before..."

Johnny stared down at his hands. "Something, something..."

Edgar waited.

"Ah, I remember. I wanted to know how you solved a problem."

_Yes, do tell, Edgar. You're so good at that kind of thing.  
_  
This kind of mockery Edgar could at least handle.

"Solving problems..."

"Yeah."

"Well...let's see...I guess I would make sure I understood the problem first..." Edgar leaned back on the pillow. He felt a little less dizzy that way. He noticed that Johnny edged closer to him in the process. "Make sure I knew all the angles...all the possibilities...all the reasons I wanted to solve the problem...information really..." Edgar hoped he wasn't rambling. "Information is really key for that kind of thing."

"So you make sure you know everything..."

"Yeah...then um...I guess you draw up a list of all the possible solutions that problem could have." Edgar felt increasingly disinclined to talk. He kept his mouth moving. "All the possibilities, no matter how silly or stupid...that kind of thing."

He was kind of drifting off. Was he just tired, or was he just emotionally drained? He wasn't sure. He probably shouldn't have lain down, now that he thought about it.

There was a silence, and Edgar could hear the rain. He was beginning to hear things again. He hadn't realized at the time that Scriabin's voice had grown louder and louder until it blocked everything out. It wasn't his lack of attention, it was that he honestly couldn't hear.

At least, that would explain why his ears were ringing. Wouldn't it?

"Edgar..." Johnny's voice was soft and staticy. No, that was just his hearing. "Are you sure...are you sure that you're okay?"

Edgar let out a sigh and rested his arm across his eyes. "I'll...I'll be okay in a few minutes...I'm just tired, really. Feel tired..."

The next words came out haltingly, and it was obvious that Johnny found them hard to say.

"Do you want to keep talking about this...?"

_There..._ Even Edgar's own mental thoughts sounded weak. _There, that was some modicum of concern...  
_  
_Edgar._ Scriabin sounded at once both spiteful and condescending. _Do you want me to start again?_ _Do you really want me to deconstruct this for you? Do you want me to tell you the truth? Do you want to have another minor seizure because apparently, the truth will make you crazy? Do you really want me to? Because I will. I just think that by now, maybe you can do that on your own.  
_  
_If I'm just...if I'm just a means to an end..._ Edgar didn't have the heart to really argue. His voice faltered and he was sure his logic was less than solid, but he felt he had to say something. _Then why would he need me at all...? His happiness...it depends on me to some level. Maybe it is selfish, maybe it is all for him in the end but I...I-, he needs me in the process. He kept me alive this long because I have to care for him...because the fact that I have to care about him in return is his perfection._ Edgar moved his arm and saw Johnny staring at him. He couldn't make out much without his glasses on, but he could see Johnny brush his hand over his bare head. That's what that motion had to be, it couldn't be much else. _Yes...I think that's it...Johnny's perfection would be...it would be my affection._

_It would be your love._ Scriabin sounded strangely emotionless. _Your love. Don't avoid the word._

_But that means that my feelings are important to him...  
_  
_Edgar._ Scriabin no longer sounded angry. _I told you before. You're still thinking in terms of Johnny's ideal, that ideal of perfection that he wants to hold. But do you think, do you honestly think, that that ideal would still be foremost on his mind if you, say, slapped him? If you yelled at him? If you kicked him out of your house and your life, do you think he could come crawling back for your approval? He wouldn't, Edgar, and you know it. He would kill you. His ideal is a fantasy that makes being near him tolerable, because that way you can pretend that he's not as insane as he is. You can pretend he has control over himself, over his actions. It's fake, Edgar. It's a lie. His concern for you, it's a lie. A pretense. And Nny will shed that pretense when you do the slightest thing to aggravate him. Do you understand?  
_  
He shuddered but found he couldn't move otherwise. He shook, his muscles were firing, but he couldn't control himself completely, couldn't raise his arm. Weakness.

Johnny still stared at him. He was more used to these pauses than Edgar was.

"I'm sorry...we were talking about problems, weren't we?"

"Yes..." Johnny nodded.

"Do I want to talk more about this, was that it...?"

Johnny turned towards the window. "I...I understand if you want to sleep. Whatever it was that happened...I understand if you don't want to talk about it anymore."

_I have an idea..._

_Oh, what now?  
_  
"Johnny, can I ask you something?"

The flickering blue light made Johnny look like a skeleton for a few frightening seconds. Edgar could feel strength returning to him, he could control his motion again. "A question?"

"Kind of." Edgar pushed himself up onto his elbows. He still couldn't see Johnny clearly. He'd have to find his glasses later. "I want to know...you said you were still going to kill me, right?"

Johnny nodded, although it was a little hesitant. Apparently he remembered that this was not high on Edgar's list of things he wanted.

"Are you sure you'll kill me when that time comes?"

"If...I know when it is." Johnny's voice got softer as the conversation continued. Pulling away.

"Johnny, would you...well, do you think that you would ever break that promise? I know it's not exactly a promise, per se, but...do you think that you would ever...do you think you would lose control, do you think you'd...well, you said you were insane. Do you think that you might kill me before that time, for one reason or another?"

_I think he's going to kill you right now for that question.  
_  
Johnny looked directly into his eyes. He leaned forward, but Edgar still couldn't read his expression.

The familiar tinges of fear.

"Is that why you're afraid of me?" Johnny's voice was low. "You don't trust me."

Edgar wasn't sure how to respond.

_I could lie but...he'd know I was lying. We were just talking about it. But...how can I tell him the truth without..._

_This is exactly what I was talking about.  
_  
"Your perfection..." Johnny seemed to be talking to himself. He was listing to one side.

"I didn't...I didn't mean..." Edgar turned his body, angled himself so he could look and speak with Johnny more directly.

The light from the lantern vanished for a few seconds, and then Johnny hit the pillow. He fell without moving his arms and staring at nothing. Edgar pulled back from him for a few seconds, making sure that he wasn't too close, but Johnny didn't react. He didn't react to Edgar even when he decided that sitting up at this point was pointless and lay back on the pillow himself.

Inches apart again. But this time, Johnny was staring through Edgar.

_He's gone. I told you.  
_  
"Nny..." Edgar kept his hands close to his chest. He knew how much Johnny hated touch. Even if he got this close on his own, Edgar didn't dare reach out to him. He didn't want to invade his personal space in any kind of way.

_That's one of the more honest thoughts you've had all night. Just pure fear there, no ulterior motive. No cover-up. You're scared of making him angry, and that's all there is to it.  
_  
"Your perfection is the lack of fear, isn't it?" Johnny's voice was emotionless. "That's what you said before. That means...the most basic solution to that problem would be to remove the source of the fear."

_The...the pacing of his words sounds familiar.  
_  
"That means you have to trust me." Johnny blinked slowly, but he still didn't look at Edgar. It was like he wasn't there. They were inches apart, face to face on the same pillow, and Edgar couldn't have been further away. "That means I have to make you trust me. Well, not exactly. More like...I have to earn your trust."

_Edgar..._

_What?_

_Edgar, he's talking like you._

_What?_

_Listen to him. The way he's phrasing his words. The way he's choosing them, even...the pauses. He's talking like you. He's imitating your voice._

_That's...no. That's not true, that's ridiculous._

_Just listen._ No sarcastic comment at his denial._ Just listen.  
_  
"You don't trust me because I've...well, I am insane for one thing. And there's the fact that I have hurt you in the past." Johnny didn't move, although Edgar knew he was talking about the scars. Johnny's eyes did not move from whatever it was they were staring at. "You told me there are no guarantees in the future. That you could not promise me things could get better. There may be some truth to that, as I can't promise you that I won't hurt you in the future either, although I don't want to. I can't promise you that I'll be sane, as much as I wish that I could. I can't promise you that I'll always have...control. I want control, certainly, but I don't know how long I'll have it. I don't know how long this period will last. I can't hear anything here, I haven't heard anything for a while. But it's a matter of time. I can't remember anything before when it all started. It would only make sense that it may eventually start again."

_He sounds just like you. Can't you tell? Listen to that. He's even pronouncing words the same way._

_I...I don't understand...why would he do that?  
_  
"But on the other hand...you said you thought it was possible." Johnny's voice remained even throughout his entire speech. Without emotion. "You told me that you were willing to try. Or to learn to trust me, I guess the logical conclusion would be. You are willing to put yourself at that risk. You said that you thought it was possible that in the future, things could get better. I don't know for sure that I'll become a slave for the universe again. I don't know for sure if things will get better. I don't know if I'll be able to protect you. I don't know if what's happening to you...ignorance."

Edgar wanted to say something, but he couldn't think of anything to say.

_Protect me from what? Himself?  
_  
"Do you believe me, Edgar?" Johnny's eyes moved and his voice regained some small amount of emotion. It was almost as if he had awoken from some kind of trance. "Do you trust my words, if not my future actions?"

Edgar maintained eye-contact as he faded back into Johnny's reality. "I think I've always trusted your words. However...as earlier times have shown...sometimes your actions are...independent of your words."

_You're lucky he's so...what's the word...robotic right now. I have a feeling he wouldn't have let that pass in one of his other moods.  
_  
Johnny's eyes flicked back and forth, and Edgar could guess that Johnny was studying his features. He was still imitating Edgar's speech pattern, although emotion was working its way through. "Do you believe me when I say that wasn't my intention?"

Edgar couldn't nod in his current position. "I do..."

"Do you believe me when I say that I've been under some horrible monster's control for god knows how long, and I haven't been able to make my own choices in my life for as long as I can remember?"

Normally Edgar would have faltered at this question. But he was there, or at least he thought he was, when it all had ended. "I do, yes."

"Do you think that now that that monster's gone, things could change? Do you think that I can become...consistent?"

Edgar ran the edge of the blanket through his fingers and could feel exhaustion creeping up on him again. "I definitely think that will lead to change. I can't say what kind, but things will definitely change. It would only make sense."

"But I'm still crazy."

Edgar wasn't sure if he had to agree to that. He didn't say anything.

"Do you think it's possible..." Johnny was still staring at him, not through him. A good sign. "Do you think it's possible that your fear is because of what I was before...and not what I could become?"

"I'd say it's possible." Edgar blinked longer than he intended, and he snapped back to wakefulness with a mental curse. It was harder to resist falling asleep now that he was lying down again. "Nnf, yeah, it's possible."

Johnny stared at him again, probably because Edgar hadn't been trying particularly hard to hide the fact he was tired. He had no idea what time it was. Did he have work tomorrow? Didn't matter anyway, his alarm clock was shot without power...

"Do you think there's a future for me?"

_Not for you, Edgar. For him. Note the lack of "us."  
_  
At this point, he was too tired to care.

"Sure..."

"Do you think I can get better?"

"Sure..." Edgar focused hard on keeping his eyes open. He found his attention drifting, and he was planning his words less cautiously than he rightly should.

"Do you think we can be perfect?"

"Sure..." It occurred to him that it might sound suspicious if he just repeated himself. "I mean, yeah...I think it's possible. I said that before, didn't I...?"

"Do you think you'll be okay?" Johnny's voice was getting softer. It sounded like he was whispering.

"Me?"

"Yeah."

"I'm sure I'll be fine..." Edgar glanced at the lantern on the desk. "I usually make it out of things okay..."

_You're not thinking straight._

__"Do you trust me? I mean...would you trust me with you?"

"Uh...what?"

"No..." Johnny didn't seem to have heard him. "You already did...never mind. This is up to me now."

"Yeah..." Edgar felt he had to contribute, although he wasn't sure what Johnny was talking about. At the time it seemed a valid contribution, but Edgar was shifting in and out of wakefulness at that point. His eyes were closed.

He wasn't sure if he should leave it at that. Had to say something...

"I think we'll be okay..."

The last thing he remembered saying. After that, he was dimly aware of someone touching him softly, maybe blankets moving, and then nothing else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Quick reference in here to "I Want You" by Madonna. Credit where credit's due! Bet you never thought you'd see a quote from _that_ particular artist in a JTHM fic, did you?  
> For the ultra extreme nitpicker, you may be asking "Was that song even out in the time period that JTHM is set?" to which I answer yes. I Want You came out in 1994, on the CD "Something to Remember." Of course, the question of how Scriabin would KNOW that song is a different matter. I'm not sure if that was a big hit, but I'm guessing it may have gotten airplay at one point or another.  
> IMPORTANT PART IS THAT YES THE SONG WAS THERE AT THE TIME THANK YOU.


	17. Break

_Edgar._

_Mmph, not yet._

_Edgar, wake up._

_Nnnno._

Knowledge that his dreamtime was now limited and temporary. Already visions, ideas, people and places, all vanishing with the knowledge that consciousness was approaching. Grasping at straws, at feelings there are no words for.

"Edgar."

Voice scratched the inside.

_Nnn, just a little longer, jus' let me...let me remember this, just...just wait..._

"Edgar, wake up."

He wanted to remember, he wanted to remember what he had seen, what he felt, what had happened. The things he had done, what he said, what he accomplished, the vistas and falls and the spiral downwards and upwards and all of it was fading. He struggled to hold onto the few scraps that lingered, those glimpses that spoke of depths sliding out of his grip.

"Wake up, Edgar! This is important!"

Gone. Waking up, even if his eyes were closed. He knew that voice. It was an easy target for his resentment.

"Nnngh, leave me alone..."

"For god's sake-! Edgar, wake up. There's something important you forgot about."

As if to spite Scriabin, Edgar deliberately turned away and reached out to pull the blankets over his head.

"I don't have to go to work today, leave me alone."

"Okay, one, that's not true. And two, this is more important than that anyway."

His hand couldn't grasp anything. He reached around a bit more in confusion, woke up a little more. _Where are my blankets? Did I kick them off?_

"Edgar. Edgar! Fine. You know what you forgot last night?"

Edgar made an irritated noise, but knew he wouldn't be able to get back to sleep now. He began to move, push himself up onto his elbows and orient himself, then burning pain spread through his lower back.

He hissed in surprise. He moved his arms, forced himself to sit upright through the aching. Questing fingers did not find anything on the skin, but felt the heat that he was sure came from...something.

"What the...why am I so sore? What is this?" Edgar wasn't talking to Scriabin, and he knew that.

"Edgar, you left the front door open."

It took a few moments for the full implication of that to sink in.

"No I didn't."

Scriabin sighed in annoyance. "Yes, you did. You meant to close it, then you forgot."

"No, no..." Edgar felt around his desk for his glasses. "No, I wouldn't have done that. I'm sure I must've closed it at some point...maybe before I went to sleep, I can't remember..."

"You left the door open, Edgar, end of story. If you can't remember, then I certainly can."

"Where are my glasses?" Again talking to no one in particular. They weren't on his desk. Where did he put them? What did he do last night, anyway?

"They're by your side. You're lucky you didn't roll over on them when you two were sleeping."

That woke Edgar up.

_Two...us. Nny._

"Is he still here?" Edgar felt for his glasses with increasingly quicker motions. "Is he still here?"

"How should I know? I'm not telepathic. Wouldn't want to be, considering who we're talking about."

"Did you see him leave? Why am I wearing this?"

Scriabin didn't answer for a few seconds. Edgar found his glasses in the meantime, ran a finger over the cracked glass.

"How, exactly, do you think I would have _seen_ Nny do anything?"

"Going to have to get these fixed..." Edgar sighed, then turned to his desk. His neck protested the motion with a thick and dull pain. "Where are you, anyway?"

"Where's your toy."

"Where are _you_," Edgar said with more anger than he intended.

"Where's your _toy_," Scriabin responded in the exact same way.

Edgar tried to move and found that the ache was not going away any time soon. Maybe a shower would help, but that would come later. He leaned over the side of his bed, checked the floor. He saw a blank sheet of paper lying beside his bed at what looked like a curiously intentional angle.

Nny, probably. More investigation later.

Not beside the bed. Edgar turned to the desk, looked between it and the mattress. He saw Scriabin lying on the floor with one arm twisted backwards.

He reached down and picked up the action figure, set him back on the desk. Fixed the arm.

"The door, Edgar." Scriabin's voice was filled with hate, and Edgar wasn't sure why. Then Edgar nodded, and that was something he couldn't readily explain either.

He forced himself to get up. As he stood, adjusted his clothes, he glanced back at the bed. The sheets were rumpled and there was a solitary blanket kicked near the foot of the bed; the fleece one he normally kept beneath the main comforter. How did that happen?

_Morning amnesia. Well, you've only been asleep a few hours. The real fun won't begin until you start to remember things._

His entire body ached all over. It hurt to walk. Why? He hadn't engaged in any strenuous activity. Although, on second thought, he had been in his share of tense situations lately.

_Do you want to know what happened last night?_

Couldn't remember much of anything. The last thing he could recall was the sound of Scriabin yelling at him, drowning out everything else, and after that everything got blurry. He remembered talking with Nny about something, but he couldn't really remember what.

_You two talked about solving problems._ The hatred was slowly fading into amusement again. Scriabin knew how Edgar would react. That was how he sounded. _You were side by side on the bed, talking. He said he wanted to be you._

Edgar groped for the doorknob of his room and kept missing. Needed to wake up more, maybe coffee. It was still fairly dark outside. He looked back and saw that outside was a dark gray. Rain? That's right, it had rained the previous day. It must still be raining now. No lights...that's why it was dark.

_You fell asleep while he was talking._ Scriabin's voice got softer. _He watched you for a few minutes. Started crying. Babbling on about you, about how he was going to hurt you. Just like I said._

_Somehow I don't believe you._ Finally managed to catch the doorknob. His fingers felt clumsy.

_Said he wanted to be you. He got closer to you, and he raised up one of your arms and put it around him, and then he curled up right against your chest. He put his head beneath your chin, closed his eyes, wrapped his arms around your body. He cried into your shirt while you slept. Want to be you. Want to be permanent. Want this to be permanent. Don't want everything to disappear. Don't want you to disappear. To break._

_Still don't believe you. _Edgar yawned and took a few steps out into his hallway. The carpet felt cool...from the water from their clothes before, that must be it. He walked towards his front door, rubbing at his eyes. _Why should I believe you._

_He touched your hair, and your face. Those scars beneath your eyes. And then he slid a hand underneath your shirt-_

_Oh stop it._ Edgar thought with irritation._ You try too hard._

_Then why are you so sore? _Could hear the smile in Scriabin's voice. _Can't tell me that, can you? Unless, you were awake that night, and you did something you don't want to remember..._

Almost to his front door when he realized it was closed.

_And denial is what you do best. Easy to erase memories. Easy to pretend it never happened if you regret it. Why is your lower back sore in particular? Are you curious?_

_It's not working. I know he'd never do that. He'd never want to do that. Nice try though._ Edgar felt strangely calm as he stared at the door that he now distinctly remembered not closing. _He'd never want to do that to me._

_With you._

_To me._

_Is that it?_ Scriabin said slowly. _Is that where the real crux of the problem lies? The fact that Nny's feelings are a certainty for you, that they could never lead to him touching you, that he could never ever feel any kind of sexual attraction for you, that that's real? And therefore, the real issue, the real reason you deny and insult and divert, all of that is because you don't know how you feel, you can't trust yourself? Is that it, Edgar? If I changed the story around, if I changed it just that bit so that you were awake, and while Johnny lay across from you, you reached out a hand and brushed the hair from his eyes, that you reached out and pulled him close to you, would that make the difference? The thought that you, you of all people in the world, wanted it? Is all this fear of yours the fear that you could want it? Not even that you do, necessarily, but that you could?_

Not the same rhythm, intensity, biting venom from last night. But it still hurt.

He closed his eyes? When?

A loud noise caught his attention. Edgar turned towards his kitchen. Kneeling on the counter, hands hidden inside of one of his cupboards, was Johnny. He was staring at the dropped can with some measure of resentment.

"Oh, Nny..." Edgar yawned again. Johnny turned to stare at him and his eyes widened. Had he really not noticed him before?

"Edgar," Johnny said with some awkwardness, then picked up the dropped can. He put it back into the cupboard without a sound. "I'm surprised you're awake."

_I'm surprised you're here._

"Mmm, yeah, I was going to...check the door for...check if the door was closed. Did you close it?" That was a stupid question. Too late now. "Just wanted to make sure..."

Johnny kept staring at him and nodded slowly.

"Make..." That's right, the power was out, and therefore making coffee was not an option. Not making instant. "Nnh, sorry. Never mind."

"What, are you hungry?" Purely clinical question. Johnny got down off the counter.

Was he? Maybe. Could probably go for something. "I don't know, sure. Yeah, fine."

Johnny stepped away from the cupboards, but made no further move.

_You didn't really think he was going to make you breakfast, did you Edgar?_

_I don't think so._

"I'd suggest the eggs in that case." Johnny held his arms behind his back. "The power still hasn't come back. They may go bad."

"Okay." Edgar nodded at what he hoped was Johnny's general direction and walked towards the fridge.

_That's right, all the perishable food...God, how much longer will this outage be? This is so irritating._

Glinting. Edgar turned and noticed there was broken glass in the kitchen sink. He looked back at Johnny, who just stared at him in return.

_Probably won't get an explanation for that._

_Unless you, you know, asked. But I have a feeling you won't do that._

Normally, he would have felt a little more self-conscious as he gathered utensils and such from various parts of the kitchen, but he still felt exhausted. The aching didn't help any. He thought his muscles were twitching for a moment, but then realized that the motions were too rhythmic. His heart. He could feel his blood beating through his skin.

Thankfully, he had a gas stove. The previous tenant had been less than careful with it, which is what probably led to their eventual eviction. The landlord barely gave Edgar a second glance before handing him the keys. At the time, Edgar thought it was because he appeared responsible.

Now.

Shook his head.

Now...the white sign with the white letters.

_I keep hearing words, faint words not in a voice that I recognize. From somewhere deep, somewhere very deep. A threat. Themselves. Quiet. Do you know anything about this?_

Too tired to think too hard. Was probably going to eat then go back to sleep, if that was okay.

If it's okay.

Johnny left the kitchen at some point. Edgar wasn't sure when. One moment, he could feel his eyes burning into his back, then the next he could hear the television. He didn't hear him turn it on, then guessed that maybe it had been on the whole time. He wasn't exactly paying a great deal of attention.

An obligation. Something, something biting at him. Had to do...something. What was it? Had to...

Ah, that was it.

"Nny, do you want anything while I'm doing...cooking?" Edgar felt around in his cupboard for the matches. "I can make you something, if you want."

"No." Very brief response.

Was that aggression?

It was too early for this. Late. That in itself was annoying. What time was it? Again, the wish for a watch.

"Mmm, okay."

He taught himself to cook. Why not? Nothing special, but enough.

_It's not like you had anything better to do with your time._

The burner click click clicked, wanted the match to stop the gas flow. A flick of the wrist and it was done.

_How long can eggs last unfrig- unrefrigerated anyway?_

Got the impression that he shrugged. Somehow. Scriabin didn't have a body, what was he talking about?

Too tired. God his back hurt.

_A real quiet death would be to just leave the burner on. Block up the windows. Let the gas fill the room._

_Where did that come from?_

_Could have happened last night. Nny could have just carefully blocked all the entrances, then left the gas running and left. Or stayed. Maybe he'd die with me._

He was losing track of who was talking.

_Stop imitating me._

_Ha ha ha._

_I mean, stop imitating my voice._ He narrowed his eyes. _It's, just cut it out._

_Yes, such a vicious and cutting remark will surely stop me in my tracks._

_That's better._

Eggs. Edgar wasn't sure why he had so many eggs. He couldn't eat this many. Had he made a cake at some point, was that why he had almost a dozen eggs in his fridge? When on earth would he have made a cake? Why don't they sell eggs in packs of six?

It would have been convenient if Nny wanted some eggs. Less of them spoiling. Even if he never would have had a use for what seemed at the time an unreasonable amount of eggs, he didn't like the idea of wasting them.

_That's why you never throw anything away._

_I do too, I just don't like wasting food._

_I present as exhibit A, your hall closet._

He tried to think of anything else he could put on eggs that would help empty his potentially spoiling fridge, but all he could think of was cheese. He was pretty sure the cheese would be fine.

Something fell down in the closet.

"Nny?"

No response.

_It was probably him._ Edgar turned back to the frying pan as if he was more involved than just poking the eggs with a fork occasionally. _Maybe...that's right, maybe putting the lamp away._

_I don't think so._

So tired. His body hurt so consistently. He wanted to get a chair and sit down, but that would make watching his eggs somewhat problematic.

_Oh God, that's right. Did you say I had work today?_

_Well, technically I did. But-_

_Uhf, I'm probably late anyway. Not going. I'm going to sleep._

_...Okay._

It wasn't a sarcastic response. It was more like surprise. More clarification needed.

_Is that what you wanted me to do?_

_...Yes, actually, if you're curious._

_Okay, that explains that._  
Another short pause like the one before.

_Not going to attack me for that? Not going to say something like "See Scriabin, see what you do, you always want me to listen to you and then when I do, you're shocked!"_

_Nah._

Edgar stared at the yolk of the eggs. Could he eat this much? He probably could. Did he...yeah, there were definitely three eggs. Probably fine.

He got the strong impression that Scriabin was somewhat disconcerted by the conversation.

Tired.

He poked the intact yolk and watched as it began bleeding over the tines of the fork. Thick yellow fluid pooled and the yolk disintegrated, disappeared. Now just yellow-white.

Scrambled now. Some quick motions of the fork, and what he'd done was quickly erased. No harm done.

He looked over to the television, caught sight of Johnny and his hair backlit with flashing colors. It looked like antenna from here. He was probably done with the closet, whatever he'd done in it.

He rubbed at his neck. What on earth had he been doing last night? He didn't remember anything. Then again, the last time he had slept was before the phone call, and after that...too much stress and tension. That was it.

_Too much sex._ Scriabin ventured cautiously. Definitely more bothered by Edgar's current state of mind than he was letting on. Consciously letting on.

_No, don't think so._ Edgar let the thought cross his mind more as an obligatory objection, poured eggs onto a plate. _No._

He seemed a bit more comforted by Edgar's resistance, no matter how lifeless. _Do you think he's eaten at all?_

_Who-, no. Probably not._

_Glass in the sink?_

_Probably dropped something._

He considered going to join Johnny by the television, but he didn't like eating over the carpet. Kitchen table instead.

_How much sleep did I get?_

_Are you seriously asking me?_

_Yeah._ Bland. Salt.

_I don't know exactly._

_Were you sleeping too?_

_...Do you think I can?_ Dismissive.

_How long?_

_Not sure, I told you. Only a few hours before I remembered about the door and decided to wake you up._

_Huh._

He found a glass of juice on the table. He was pretty sure he must have poured it. Made sense, that was perishable. Didn't exactly remember the motions or the mental decisions to do so, but there it was. Tasted fine, if a little warm.

_Are you going back to sleep after this?_

_Yeah._

_Good._

Making his way through the fluff on his plate. Maybe he should have added the cheese.

_You know...I'd tell you how strangely you're acting, but I don't think you'd really...appreciate it in the mood you're in._

"Mmhmm."

_Don't do that._

He put the fork in his mouth then focused on the sensation of metal against his lips.

_Just like-...ugh, I can't even do it when you're like this. It's like kicking a dead man._

Could feel the metal slowly warming. Wasn't sure how long he left the fork in his mouth. Time was pretty relative now. Still raining. Well, if it had only been a few hours...

Eyes closed.

_Get that fork out of your mouth before you fall forward and stab your brain._

He complied without arguing.

_This worries me, Edgar._ Scriabin sounded vaguely nervous. Maybe. _Maybe this is just something I'm unfamiliar with, but I don't think so. I have memories to go through, references, a whole card catalogue and yet, nothing like how you're acting now. Maybe you forgot, that's understandable. Doesn't make it any less unnerving._

"Mmhmm."

_Stop doing that. I'd tell you to wake up, but I want you to go back to sleep as soon as possible._

He felt something very lightly touch his shoulder. Normally, he would have been more alert, would have heard someone coming or at least would have reacted with a jump or something like that.

He turned his head.

Johnny stood behind his chair, hands resting on the back. Must have brushed by him by accident.

"Are you awake?" Delivered with more intensity than Johnny probably intended. Edgar couldn't tell. He wasn't good at this, particularly now.

Stabbed eggs. "Not really."

Johnny took a seat next to him.

"Are you going to go back to sleep?"

"What time is it?" He blinked at Johnny. He thought he did. When his eyes were open he found his hand had drifted and he was stabbing the tablecloth.

Johnny did not look pleased.

"I'm not sure. There's no power."

_No power..._

"Right..."

_No power, no power. EDGAR. EDGAR, SHIT._

_What!? What, Jesus._

_No power means no TV!_

Edgar blinked. Very slowly coming through. He turned around to where he had seen Johnny watching the television and saw it was off. Blank. The VCR he had never managed to program correctly blank.

_But..._

_Oh shit._

_Nngh..._

"Edgar...?"

Eggs half gone. Not hungry anymore.

"Uhhn..." He pushed the plate away, rested his head on the table on folded hands. "Nny, what were you doing?"

"Nothing." His voice was very quiet. "I wasn't doing anything. I organized your cupboards."

"No I mean...ugh God. God I need to sleep. Everything's getting all..."

_But we heard it, and he was watching it, if it wasn't on, then what was he doing. Fuck this shouldn't be affecting me, I shouldn't have seen that, I- shit. Shit shit SHIT_

"The door..."

"Yeah, the door."

_You shouldn't swear so much._ The problem with thinking is that it can be so hard to control. Scriabin completely ignored him.

What were they talking about?

"God, why does my back hurt...ugh!" Edgar felt a sudden intense burst of rage that he couldn't even begin to explain. He ended up slamming a clenched fist into the table once sharply before he realized what he was doing. Rage gone as quickly as it had come, and he automatically checked to make sure that his glass was upright. Hadn't spilled. He liked this tablecloth.

Nny. He turned and saw him staring. Johnny looked hurt somehow.

"It's not you, it's just...uh, I'm tired. This doesn't make any sense. I'm just...going to sleep. I'm going back to sleep."

"How much do you remember from last night?" His voice. Suddenly unfamiliar, grating. Piercing. Hate-

_Edgar! Edgar, go to sleep! Stop thinking about it!_

_Shut up, don't tell me what to do._ Frustration quickly diverted towards Scriabin.

"I...I don't know. I don't know right now, I'm...tired. Tired." Not in the mood for answering questions. Mild resentment at the implication that he would know the answer to those questions anyway.

No reply from anyone.

"You didn't sleep, did you?" Edgar wanted his arms to move, wanted to lift his head back up and at least get back to his bed, but nothing. The aching didn't exactly motivate him.

"No." Johnny smiled weakly.

"Uh-huh. Makes sense..." Pushing muscles. His heartbeat shook his body. Burning. "Maybe I'm...I don't know...just tired."

"Your back hurts?"

"Yeah...okay, getting up now." He hoped saying it out loud would motivate him to move. His arms still refused to comply. Still had his head on his hands and the pain in his back was spreading steadily up his spine, through his shoulder blades. Crawling up his neck. Had to get up before it got too far had to get up

Johnny gently shaking his shoulder. "Don't fall asleep here. That won't help."

His eyes had closed again. His back still hurt. Body hurt.

"Right..." Edgar blinked hard, focused on the pain to keep himself up, keep himself awake. Pushed at his muscles, pushed but nothing happened. "Getting up now." Not getting up now.

Pause. No movement.

Eyes still open. Followed Johnny's thin wrist. Protruding bone, veins and white. White.

"Hey...you put the gauze in then...put the gauze on I mean." Edgar thought maybe he smiled, although he couldn't think of any reason why that wasn't stupid at the time. Johnny blinked then stared down at his bandaged wrist.

"Right...it burned a little."

"Haha yeah...that's why I got it." His voice was drifting. He was drifting. "Got the gauze, I mean...thought you should but didn't say."

Pause again. Johnny tapped a thin finger against the cloth, watched tendons flex beneath the gauze.

"Why not?"

"I don't know...um, you seemed angry I guess. Didn't want to bother you."

Another pause. Edgar fell asleep again, he was sure. The crawling pain was back, moving over his scalp. Spiders.

Claws on his shoulder. "Edgar, don't sleep here. Go to bed."

"Haha, I can't move."

Edgar wasn't sure why he sounded so nonchalant and it scared him. First real emotion he could remember. Automatic unconscious explanation, logic, excuse, cover-up.

"Guess it hurts too much. I'll get up though, I will."

Johnny looked concerned.

He could feel Scriabin's concern, although he didn't say anything.

"I-I just can't get started. Can I ask you for help?" He wasn't quite sure who he intended the question for. There weren't any other sentient beings in the house that he was aware of, yet he somehow got the impression that he was asking the juice glass he was staring at so intently. That may have been why he was so surprised when he got an answer.

Johnny didn't say anything, but he did move. He reached out and pulled Edgar's hands out from beneath his chin. The motion was enough to get Edgar moving somewhat. He leaned back in the chair, and his body screamed in response.

Stronger than he looked. He remembered thinking that a long time ago when he woke up in the machine. Frail-looking but terribly strong. Johnny pulled him out of the chair without much grace, quickly looped Edgar's arm around his shoulders. The chair might have tipped, Edgar wasn't sure, there was a lot of noise at the moment.

Memory of strength broke through that frail image. He should have felt scared, should have remembered what happened, what could happen, what would happen to him at Johnny's hands, but nothing. No fear, but quite possibly because no coherency.

"I'm sorry, I know you hate being touched..." Guilt and pain all at once. Couldn't really see where he was going.

Stumbled through to Edgar's bedroom.

God, he hated making pained noises. He hated doing that. It seemed self-indulgent. He hated it. Self-pitying. Surely Scriabin would approve of such criticism. Couldn't help it though, the aching made it hard for his legs to move at all. Occasional soft grunts of pain that he tried to hide.

"I don't like touching empty things," Johnny finally said.

_You won't remember that. I'll keep it in mind for you, though._ He doubted it was for beneficial purposes.

Ache in his back working its way through his chest. When Johnny rested him on the bed, he curled up on his side immediately. Instinctual self-protective position.

Closed his eyes.

Pain but he was afraid to move, afraid to stretch. Afraid that might make it worse. Curled up into a miserable ball and wished and prayed it would stop.

Not sure how much time passed. Without much warning, he felt a sudden onset of warmth across his back, from his shoulders down to his waist, and he gasped. Couldn't turn or move though, the pain was fading. He kept himself as still as possible, feared that any kind of motion would ruin it, bring the pain back. Heat would make the ache go away and make sleep possible...

Something scratched his cheek, fabric, then he was asleep again and gone.

~~~

When Edgar woke up again, it was natural. The gradual disappearance of his dreams was not something he tried to fight. His body wanted to move, wanted to do things again, and he came back to consciousness without struggle.

He could not remember anything in great detail about the last time he had woken up, but he got the distinct impression that he may have done or said something foolish in the process. That he had been less than lucid at the time. Understandable. Edgar tended to get the regularly recommended amount of sleep, even during work days, and therefore he had little experience with sleep-deprivation.

_Interesting explanation, but lacking some vital factors._ Scriabin's voice slowly faded into his mind. _That was Before._

Edgar thought for a moment to ask what exactly Scriabin meant, but found he knew. _That's right, Before. I remember now...I had trouble sleeping back then as well. But nothing like...whenever it was that I last woke up._

_How much do you remember?_

_Not a lot, although even with the vague memories I do have, it's enough to feel embarrassed. Do I always get like that when I don't get enough sleep?_

He didn't answer.

Edgar turned over slowly, remembering that, if nothing else, he had been in a lot of pain when he had woken up before. The aching had subsided a great deal, lingering tinges but nothing major. He felt resistance against his back, something brushing up against him.

With some confusion, Edgar pushed himself up into a sitting position and looked. There was a towel on his bed.

_Odd..._

Edgar ran a hand over it, felt something underneath the fabric. He unfolded the towel and saw three water bottles, much like the three he kept in his fridge.

_What the...?_

_Do you want to know?_

Edgar glanced over at Scriabin and saw light glinting off his glasses folded at the action figure's feet. He reached over to put them on. _I don't think I trust you._

_One of these days Edgar, you're really going to have to ask yourself about what you think my intentions are. Why you think I'm constantly lying to you._

_I think it may be because you always have lied to me._

_Tell me one time I lied to you that you proved without a shadow of a doubt._

Edgar noticed that the cap on one of the water bottles hadn't been screwed on all the way. It had leaked and soaked through the towel and subsequently, through to the bed. Not too much though. It'd probably dry by itself.

_You don't lie about those kind of things. You lie about me and who I am._

_Aaaand, where's your evidence? Still haven't given me any evidence._

_Well for one thing, I'm not gay._ Edgar glared at Scriabin as he moved the towel and bottles off of his bed, slid them onto the floor.

_Did I ever say you were, exactly?_

To be honest, Edgar was surprised. _Are you denying that now?_

_No, you're not looking at it the right way. Did I ever say, outright, that you were gay? I don't recall doing so, unless it was in some facetious fashion._

Edgar shook his head. _Yes you did, you have. That's all you've been doing for the-_

_There's that trait that makes Christians so lovably endearing to others. The complete inability to see things in shades of gray. I never said you were gay, Edgar. In fact, I never said you even had feelings-_

_Yes you did! _Couldn't exactly remember something specific, which added to his frustration because he knew, he _knew_-

_No I didn't._

_Yes you did!_

_No I didn't. Is it just me, or is this getting a bit childish? No. I presented you with evidence. With questions, and you answered them for me. The fact of the matter is I have never outright said you were anything, unless it was a hypocrite or something of that nature. The facts, Edgar, the facts are that I raise questions that you don't like, that you read into, and then you shut me out. I question you, Edgar, and you can't answer me. That's what you hate about me, isn't it? That I ask too many questions._

_You're a liar. That's not true._ Edgar got out of bed and stood. He stretched, took a step, and heard a loud crinkling beneath his feet. A sheet of paper. _You've always been trying to make me something I'm not._

_I've been trying to make you face up to what you are._

_See? There, that's what I'm talking about. You think that, you think that I have those feelings, and you're wrong._

_You're putting words in my mouth._ He almost sounded amused. _That's a change._

_You're wrong. You think I am, don't you? You do. You wouldn't make all of your stupid double-entendre laden comments about Nny if you didn't._

_I don't think, Edgar. I know._

_There! That's exactly what I was talking about!_

_I know you'll never accept it. That's why I ask you those questions. I hope that someday, maybe you'll realize what you've done. Doing. What you're doing. Besides, do I have to remind you about our fun time in your mind? About what you said there?_

_I didn't say anything, anything that you can prove. You forced me to lie with fantasies._

_And you never answered my question back there. What does that make me, then?_

_God, I just...ugh._ Edgar rubbed at his forehead. _What did I even want to ask you in the first place?_

_The water bottles._ It sounded as if he was smirking somehow. _I don't mind changing the topic, I know we'll go over it again, and again, and again until you-_

_So why were they there?_

_Nny put them there._

Edgar paused for a second.

"Why?" It was a question that he somehow felt deserved physical voice.

"Because your back hurt, basically. He filled them with hot water. Heat alleviates pain."

He looked back at his desk and saw his clock was blinking at him. 12:00.

The power was back.

He looked down at the piece of paper he had stepped on and found something written on it. He leaned down and picked it up, went and flicked on the lights. Black words in a tight scrawl he found familiar.

_Maybe I've been too close to you.  
Maybe that's been the problem all along.  
I'll talk to you again._

"Too close..." Edgar sat back down on the edge of his bed. "Too close...?"

"You don't really remember what happened the last time you were awake, so I guess this may seem strange to you."

"What, do you know what this means?" Edgar rolled his eyes.

"What makes you think I wouldn't? I would hazard to say that in most scenarios, Edgar, I'm a great deal more perceptive than you are."

"You-"

"Otherwise you wouldn't ask for my advice so often, would you?"

"Well then, what does this mean? I didn't do anything to him...I'm not sure why he'd leave me a note like this. I remember...I remember explaining that my frustration last night wasn't his fault. I don't want him to think that I was angry at him by any means..."

"You don't remember, and that's what makes this the most pitiful thing. Although I doubt it will be unusual in days to come...at any rate, I do remember what you did in your sleepy haze some twelve hours ago."

"Twelve hours!"

"Yes, this time I tried to keep track. That's not important though. I think Johnny is worried about his influence on you, and I think your sleep-deprived episode earlier on may have given him the wrong impression. After all, he does have a tendency to jump to conclusions."

"But..." Edgar stared at the note. "It wasn't..."

"Yes, that's what makes this so deliciously ironic. It wasn't his fault. You were just tired. But it could be that those half-started sentences, your broken thoughts and nonsensical connections, he could have thought that was him."

Edgar couldn't think of anything he wanted to say in front of Scriabin. Muffled his mental words. He could hear a soft laugh.

"I know what you're trying to do. The garbled noise itself can tell so much. This is beautiful in so many ways. Think about it, Edgar...been too close. Maybe he's been too close all along. Do you think this is it, Edgar? Do you think that maybe Johnny has finally realized that this relationship isn't healthy, that he will and is hurting you, and he's going to end it, not with a stab, but with a letter?"

"No..."

"Your last connection, your last shining thread connecting you to anyone, anywhere. What has it been all this time? Threaded through your body, through your mind, through your tongue and through your brain, and now it's gone. The puppeteer has left."

"No, that can't be true..." He could feel the beginnings of anger, but it had no direction. Not that he could discern just yet.

"He'll talk to you again, but it will be to say good-bye. Your sleepiness finally got through to him when nothing else would. He knows now and, oh, this is so beautiful, and now that he has a good look, that he's really seen what a farce this whole relationship is, he's horrified. He's going to put an end to it, something you never could. Tell me, Edgar, although I know the answer, did you ever think that you would be the one dumped?"

Scriabin was laughing, but there was something odd about the tone of his voice.

"That can't be true..." Edgar covered his mouth with one hand. "This can't be...no, not after last night." Anger quickly being refocused, rethought. "This doesn't make sense."

"It doesn't make sense because you weren't here last night. Or rather, when you woke up. The only justification you have is what you can't remember!" Still laughing.

"No...no, that can't be right. Everything, everything Johnny has done so far has been to attain his ideal." Easy to slip into measured speech and thought. "Last night, that was all he talked about. Everything for him relates back to that ideal, back to what he wants me to be. For him to suddenly decide that he's giving up...no, he wouldn't do that. Johnny's nothing if not tenacious."

"Johnny's nothing if not capricious." Scriabin tried to catch his breath. "After all, your life hung on threads too thin for you to even think about now, and it just took one word or one lucky instance to change that fate. Who's to say that your peculiar behavior earlier could have been one of those unfortunate triggers?"

"No, no." Edgar had decided what to believe. "This means something else..."

"Oh does it now? Is your resistance because this misunderstanding is your fault?"

Ignored him. "Too close...he talked about how he was afraid of something happening to me...wanted me to stop being afraid of him...distance, maybe...no. Change...he talked about change."

He set the sheet of paper to one side, looked around his room. "If he's serious about changing, about becoming a better person, then maybe that's where he's gone now...maybe that's why he left."

"Wouldn't that be perfect?" Scriabin snorted. "You're still believing in lies, after everything that I explained to you, you still believe in lies. You're such an optimist."

"I wonder if he left any other papers around here..."

"Yes, mangled some of your other property. Wrote on your mirror with lipstick or blood perhaps, spray-painted a message on your wall. What marvelous disrespect for your things could Johnny have shown this time?"

Edgar stood and ignored Scriabin's voice. He glanced out the window and saw that it was still raining, although not as hard as it had been earlier. He could see the glowing halos of streetlights out in the darkness. Twelve hours...it was sometime in the evening now. Exactly when he wasn't sure, but regardless of the hour he was sure this would ruin his sleeping schedule for the next couple days.

His bedroom door was open. He looked into the hallway. The hallway closet door was open and the lantern sat beside it. Bathroom door was open...any door that Edgar could see was open at the moment.

Well, except the front door.

_Do you honestly think he'd change for you?_ Scriabin did not appreciate being ignored. This tone was familiar. _For you, of all people? When his precious Devi couldn't motivate that change?_

A minor revenge of non-attention.

Pens scattered across the carpet again. No surprise there. Edgar expected Johnny to have written something somewhere, and assumed that maybe his new books were the victims.

_Imagine what Johnny would think if he saw those. I'm sure he'd appreciate being referred to as irredeemably insane. Probably as much as he would about being your spouse._

His cheek itched and he remembered. The bandage had stayed in place overnight, a good sign. He'd pull it off later.

He hadn't thought of his books...

_What, are you worried that Johnny will think you think he's nuts? Come ON, Edgar. He's told you that himself countless times. How could that offend him? As it is, you're the only one who's denying what everyone knows is true._

A sheet of paper tucked underneath his couch. He could see glimpses of black and blue lines.

_What'll it be this time?_

Edgar picked up the sheet of paper, but before he could read any of the writing on it, he caught another glimpse of a sheet caught beneath his coffee table. More writing. He pulled it free and sat down on his couch.

Familiar black writing, blotches and dark hard lines. On one sheet, the pen had actually stabbed through the paper, leaving an indented tear.

_want is the problem  
control = answer  
desire destroys  
potential for change  
cold - wall - blocking  
emotions are the food  
learn how_

Then Edgar's name, crossed out several times and at one point scribbled over with what looked like a vengeance.

"This isn't like the others..."

_These aren't diary entries, you moron._ He probably resented how Edgar was too far away for a verbal conversation. _Remember what you said about solving problems?_

Next sheet written with quick and sharp lines, the limited text peppered with obscenities scrawled with obvious anger.

_extension of what I was meant to contain  
contain - insanity  
definite downward spiral  
prevent unpleasant situations  
no anger no fear no hatred  
careful watch - protection  
divert hate flow?_

Scriabin hummed for a moment in thought. _In the hospital..._

"Divert hate flow...?"

_You're doing a very good job at hiding something from me, Edgar. I can feel it. More importantly, I know why. Whatever this thing is, it will hurt you. Or you assume that, if I knew about it, I would hurt you with that knowledge._

Stared at the sheet of paper.

_You've tried to hide things from me before and failed, but this time, you're working quite hard. The conversation in the hospital, however, is my key._

_Feeding a delusion..._

_You may say that, but I don't believe you. I don't believe you. There are too many coincidences for me to believe you were just playing along. It'd be one thing if you two had differing visions of...whatever this is, but your visions worked together, and that's the piece, the part that matters._

_It wasn't anything...nothing happened. I don't know what happened._

_A very badly knit sweater, and I just have to find the thread that will cause the whole thing to unravel. You aren't as good at this as I am, Edgar. When I find the one question, that one question, everything will fall apart._

"I don't want to talk about it."

_Haven't heard you say that in a while._

"I don't!" Edgar stood up, found his hands were clenched into fists. "I don't, I don't want to, leave me alone!"

He stared at the floor, tried to find any other pieces to the puzzle that Johnny left him.  
Another sheet beneath a pillow on the floor. He knelt down, pulled it free.

Just his name. His and Johnny's, scrawled over and over. Letters on top of one another, blotches and rips and what looked like distortion from water. Johnny must have spilled something...

Johnny's name written with jagged, sharp capital letters.

Edgar's written in lower case.

"Leave me alone!" Preemptive, or so he hoped.

A moment of silence.

_Make me._

"I don't have to listen to you!" Rising emotion and his voice was changing pitch. He dropped the sheet of paper, saw it flutter to the floor. He felt his hands against his forehead before he remembered moving.

_Is that so? _Infuriating calm.

"Nothing happened! Shut up!"

_Nothing happened._

"Nothing happened!" His voice cracked and he started coughing. Once he started, he found he couldn't stop. As his breath became shorter and more difficult, he felt the brief onset of panic. Every short expulsion of breath made him want more, want it faster, air rushing in too fast and burning and out again and tearing. He was desperate to breathe, but he kept coughing longer and he could feel the back of his throat bleeding.

Desperation forced him to his knees, one hand to his throat as he gasped for air. Couldn't hear, and watched his glasses fall across his name, shattering the letters through cracked lenses. Finally it stopped, the spasming stopped and he took a deep and long breath.

His throat felt fine, no bleeding then, just a little sore...

_Well, that was an impressive tantrum. Accomplishes nothing, though._

"Nothing..." His voice sounded strange.

_Has it occurred to you that that's less than convincing? Ah, the irony of it all. If only you hadn't chatted with Nny at the hospital about whatever it was that happened, then this thread would never have come to light. May I ask you straight out, or would you prefer another seizure first?_

He put his glasses back on, but closed his eyes right afterward. He gripped his upper arms, felt as though there was no flesh on his bones.

_I just, I'm not sure, I don't know, nothing..._

_Edgar, did you go to "Heaven" after our chat?_

_No._

_No? Then just what were you and Johnny talking about in the hospital?_

_Some kind of...shared delusion I don't know._ He felt his fingers digging deeper into his skin, felt it cool as blood was forced out by pressure. _It wasn't real. It couldn't have been real. None of it, none of it happened. It was a dream, some kind of sick dream, some kind of...some...you._

_I'm sorry, what?_

_You._ He opened his eyes, felt his hands shaking from the pressure he was exerting. _It was you._

_I..._ He sounded genuinely surprised. _I'm not sure what you mean._

_It was you, it was you, it was you._ Edgar clenched as hard as he could, frustration that this was as much pressure he was capable of through his hands, pressed harder, shaking furiously. "It was you, you're the one that did that to me."

_I...what? What are you talking about?_

"You, you liar. You've always lied to me. You've lied to me about everything." Edgar's voice was low and dark. "You've always lied to me, always presented those pictures, those scenarios of possibilities and maybes that can never be true, can never happen. It's always been you, you've always been here, you've always lied to me. It was you."

_Edgar, what are you talking about?_

"I don't know how you did it, how you were able to create an illusion so perfectly horrible...no, I do know. It was because you knew me, you said you read my thoughts. You knew what I was scared of, you knew what I wanted Heaven to be, and you made it, you made it all up, you did it all, trying to trick me..."

No response. He knew it.

"Trying to fool me, trick me, I knew it. You must have, I don't know how, but you must have gotten to Nny somehow, someway, maybe related to...you're not a part of me, you never were. You're an intruder, an invader, a parasite, I know it. I know it, I know you can't be me, you can't be any part of me, you can't be, and you have power. You have power, I saw it last night, you tried...you tried to do something to me. You tried to do something and I don't even know what, but I fought you off, Scriabin, I wouldn't let you take me." Edgar started laughing softly. "I wouldn't let you win, and I won't let you win. You hurt me but I wouldn't let you win, I wouldn't let you. This is all, this is all an elaborate set up, another play, another role for me to take, another web of lies to justify your obsession with Nny. All of it, all to feed this obsession, all of it lies."

Laughing harder now with relief.

"I should have known, I should have guessed. He said he hears voices, maybe he heard yours, maybe you told him what to say, maybe you fed him the same lies, the same scenario, and watched as we played into your hands. All lies, this is all lies, this is all your fault. This is all your fault. This is all your fault."

Slipped into a mantra, didn't notice when he started rocking back and forth. Smiling.

"This is all your fault."

No response.

"This is all your fault."

The words were comforting, familiar, and so real. Couldn't lose them, let them slip away.

"This is all your fault."

No response.

"This is all your fault." His hands loosened their grip and they shook as he peeled his fingers from sticky skin. A dull kind of burn as he moved his arms, flexed his muscles. Still rocking back and forth, and his hands found their familiar home in his hair. What was he staring at?

"This is all your fault."

A very soft voice in Edgar's mind, almost lost in the comforting cycles of repetition.

_No it's not._

"Yes it is."

_No, Edgar._ His voice was still soft. _No it isn't._

"Yes it is..." Whispered to match his tone.

_I...I don't even know what to say. I don't know what's going on. It's hard for me to say that but I don't know what the hell just happened. I was trying to get at that memory, that dream thing you hid from me, and all of a sudden everything just...I can't even begin to describe it. Everything's falling apart, I'm seeing things blending and changing and the dream thing is multiplying. I'm there, and I don't remember._ It didn't sound like he was talking to Edgar. _I'm in your memories when I didn't exist. It's like everything suddenly just collapsed, just...I can't even begin. I don't know where to begin. These are your memories, Edgar, these are your facts, without them you have no life, you have no you, and they're...you're changing them. This is you, isn't it? It has to be..._

"All your fault..."

_The rewriting of history..._ Scriabin almost sounded afraid. _I didn't do this. I didn't make this fantasy. I didn't do this. I wasn't there._

"Yes you were." Gradual calm and cessation of motion. Edgar let his hands fall to his sides and watched his fingers curl again, brief physical memory of the grip on his arms. "I know it, I know the truth."

_This isn't real!_ Scriabin shouted and at the sudden change in volume Edgar winced. _This isn't real, Edgar! You can't just, just edit me into your memories and pretend it was my fault! I didn't do this!_

"I understand now." He stood. "I understand. Everything makes sense. It was all a lie."

_No! I wasn't there! What are you- this wasn't my fault!_

"Denial?" He turned towards his bedroom, took a few steps with a crooked smile. "And you said you hated that."

"NO!" Physical voice, a desperate scream. "No, Edgar! This isn't real! You can't pretend like this, you can't do this! It's not real! You can't make reality like this, you can't do this! I wasn't there! Edgar, I wasn't there! I didn't do this to you!"

"You've done so much to me already, and now you won't admit it?" Edgar walked into his bedroom. The action figure was pointing his gun across Edgar's bed, as he always had.

"For the love of GOD!" Scriabin sounded deeply upset, and Edgar wasn't sure why. "I didn't think this would-...Edgar, listen to me. There is a reality, Edgar, a very clear reality and a very clear line that defines that reality-"

"My memories, isn't it?" Edgar sat on his bed, picked up the little action figure.

"Your memories, Edgar! You can't edit those, you can't do that, you have no idea how bad this is, you have no idea what you're doing-"

"You're just upset I caught you. And you wanted proof of being caught in a lie earlier. Well, here we are. All a scheme, a clever deception, isn't it? You've always hated my religion, you've always wanted me to become my own person and renounce God, you've always wanted that, wished for it. I never thought you'd go to such depths, to such lengths-"

"No, Edgar! Stop it! Stop- I..." He paused, struggled with his words. "I didn't do this to you. I asked you a question..."

"So all this...Johnny and his talk of decay...it was your fault..."

"Oh god. Oh god." Sounded increasingly desperate. "Reality, Edgar, reality, think about it please. Think for a moment about what you've done, what you're doing. This isn't real, you just wish it was. You wish I had done this to you, but you _can't make it so_."

He moved one of Scriabin's arms down to his side. "I knew it."

"God, Edgar, stop! I don't know what to- fucking Christ! You can't do this to me, you can't reconstruct your memories and your life! This is all I have! Shit! This is our reality, Edgar, ours! You can't change it!"

Moved his other arm down.

"I can't believe- I can't- I-" Short words with short breaths. Almost hyperventilating. Edgar imagined the plastic in his hands moving. "I've got to, I've got to calm down, this has gone too far. This is gone way too far, this has gone way out of your depth. That's it, this is it. I need to calm down, because shit! Shit, you're not going to help me!" Fear turned to anger, familiar anger. "You're too weak, you're too weak to pull yourself out of this! You're too weak to stop something that feels so good, you goddamn coward! It's up to me, I have to take control. I have to calm down, I have to do your 'detaching' routine." Lingering deep sarcasm, fierce resentment on an emphasized word. "I can't believe this, I can't believe you did this, I can't believe you're doing this and you don't even think anything is wrong. I can't believe this."

"All along, all along-"

"Shut up!" Scriabin shouted and Edgar dropped him. The action figure fell between his legs, hit the carpet and bounced once. He expected silence and for a moment a cry of pain, but was disappointed on both counts. "Just shut up, you stupid BITCH! I'm trying to think!"

"That's a first." Edgar smiled down at Scriabin. "You want me to shut up?"

A frustrated sound. "I can't believe you're making me do this. I can't believe this. I know it, I know later on, you're going to deny it happened, that you ever needed me. You're going to deny it, going to deny that you were wrong, going to deny everything because that's the only thing you can do anymore because all logic works against you." A familiar sarcastic rhythm, and he sounded less panicked now. "You fucking bastard, you hypocritical son of a bitch, I can't believe you're making me do this. I can't believe you need me to pull you out of your stupid hidey-hole. You need me, you need me and you'll never say it, not now or not afterwards. I get those tinges of regret, but what good are they to me?"

"What, exactly, do you think you're going to do?" Edgar leaned his head on his hands, stared at the action figure on his floor. It didn't move.

"Ugh, your voice....your- just shut up. I've got to appeal to that part of you that can still think, can reason through this, but I'm becoming increasingly concerned that that part is me. Listen to me, Edgar."

"I'm waiting."

"Shut up and listen to me..." A few seconds pause, harsh breathing. "Think about it. If I could talk to Johnny, if I could somehow communicate with him, don't you think I would have done so already?"

"Maybe you've been doing that all along, and I just never knew."

Mumbled words for a brief moment. "If that's the case, Edgar, then what does that make your current relationship? You're so intent on protecting Johnny from my attacks, you almost had a seizure last night when I told you exactly what was wrong with him. If I made him that way, why do you argue with me about it? What would I have to gain by doing that to him? What would that do?"

Edgar got up and walked out of the room.

_I've got to find a way- look around, Edgar._ The voice back in his head, although it sounded strained. _Look around, find something else. Find a note, find something._

"I don't have to listen to you."

_You don't have to, Edgar, you never have. But you should._

Another sheet of paper, this time peeking out from beneath his television.

_satan - waste lock  
wasn't meant to be a lock  
no more voices  
quiet introverted people  
alone - can't be alone  
edgar - candidate, not sure  
system can be beaten  
have to find way to beat the system  
won't let this happen  
prevent hate and anger  
collapse must be prevented  
sanity - logic  
logic - safety  
safety - security  
keep him safe  
must be clear at all times can't be clouded  
must learn how_

Heard something in the back of his head, a soft whine of pain...it had to be. _This-, this is-, have to-...look, Edgar, look. I- You were right._ Scriabin's voice was quiet, but not calm. _Look, see, you were right. Oh god, get off me- you were right, Edgar, look. He is trying to change. He's trying to change._

"I..." Edgar couldn't register what Scriabin said. "I was right...?"

_I see, I- oh god thank you...yes, Edgar, yes you were._ Soft, soothing voice. _You were right. I was wrong._

"Wrong...you were wrong...?"

_Yes, Edgar, yes I was. Johnny's trying to change for you, see? He wants to learn how to deal with this, he wants to learn how to protect you. I can see what you've created in here, where you've inserted me into this bizarre fantasy, and I don't know how much of it is real anymore. I can't trust what this memory tells me because I know some parts are false, and that throws the entire thing into question._ His voice was still very soft, a quiet and comforting lull. Edgar sat down on the couch and closed his eyes. _I have nothing to judge it against except what Johnny said in the hospital, and that only adds pieces. If this whole waste-lock business that I- ggh, Satan talked about is real, then this is a threat we have to consider, but Johnny already has considered it. He's attempting to change, to change himself to fight the system for you._

_I was right..._

_Yes you were, Edgar, you were right. _His voice almost sounded melodic. He never heard him talk this way before. _I can admit that I was wrong, I can admit that I jumped to conclusions. I can admit that, all right? Calm down and think clearly._

_It's nice to know you can be wrong at times._

_It is, isn't it?_ Gentle words and the opposite of the reaction he expected. _You already feel better, don't you?_

_I think so..._

_Good. This is much better. This thing in your mind, this memory of yours, it's not my fault._

_But-_

_No no, listen to me._ His voice still very soft, quiet and without any anger. _I don't know what it is either, all right? I don't know anymore than you do._

_You don't know?_

_No, I don't, Edgar, I don't know. I don't know what this is or what it means. I feel just like you do about it, I'm as confused as you are._

_Confused..._

_That's right, Edgar, you don't have to attack me for it. I won't hurt you._ Almost a song, words that rose and fell in a cadence that was relaxing, very calming. Familiar somewhere deep but he couldn't place why or where._ I won't hurt you for it, because I don't know myself. I won't hurt you for not knowing. I won't hurt you for your doubt about this memory. Please, let it go. You don't have to justify it to me, to yourself. You don't have to assign this memory a motivation, a source. It's a mystery, isn't it?_

_I don't know what happened._

_Neither do I._ Just agreeing with him was so rare. _I don't know. It wasn't my fault though._

_But-_

_No, it wasn't my fault, Edgar._ He almost felt something brush against his cheek, but saw nothing when he opened his eyes. Maybe it was his own hand. He felt slow in everything he was doing, in his reactions and his thoughts. He didn't want to go to sleep, but he felt that if he wanted to, he could easily do so. _It wasn't my fault, was it? I didn't create this memory for you. I don't know who did. I don't know if it's real or not, just like you._

_Just like me..._

_That's right, just like you. I don't know if it's real or not. But I know that I wasn't there, and that I didn't make it. I didn't make it, Edgar, you know that._ He closed his eyes, felt something resting on his shoulders. Scriabin's voice near one of his ears. _You know it, don't you? I wasn't there, was I? Think clearly, take a deep breath. Take as much time as you need to sort through everything. You're confused, you're not thinking straight._

_I don't feel good... _His body felt weak, as if there was some kind of weight in his stomach.

_That's okay._ He shouldn't sound this way, shouldn't sound so concerned, and Edgar shouldn't feel relieved, relieved for any open concern from anyone. _That's okay. A lot has happened for both of us just now, a lot of things have happened that need to be fixed. I'm going to need your help. I'm going to need you to let it go. I'm not going to ask you for answers, I'm not going to ask you to say whether that dream was real or not, I'm not going to ask you for details, but I am going to ask you to stop blaming it on me. It wasn't my fault. You have to realize that, you have to let that go, you have to take this responsibility away from me, and then I can start to fix things...you have to take me out of this dream, out of this memory of yours._

_Why should I...?_ A quiet question that came without thought. His breathing was slow and even, and again a light touch across his cheek. Maybe he left the window open. _It makes so much sense..._

_It does, doesn't it?_ No condescending tone, no sarcasm, no hatred of any kind. _I can understand why it would be easier for you, I can understand that. But that doesn't make it right. It will only hurt you, hurt us in the long run. It's better this way. It'll be better for you if you leave it as it once was, leave it in the corner of your mind. It'll be something that we can both work on together, all right?_

_Together?_

_Yes, together. I'm sure we can find a solution. We work well together, my boy, we do. I know that we can solve this mystery if we stay calm and we stay rational. But you need to take me out of it first, you need to do that._

_We've...we've never worked together on anything, why would you start now..._

_We've always worked together._ Something touched his neck softly, and Edgar found his fingers where his heartbeat was most tangible. _I can't do this by myself. I can't do this without you, I can't repair this damage by myself. I need you to work with me. I need you to trust me, just this once._

_Why should I trust you?_

_I'm the only one who can help you now, Edgar. Even if this whole thing never happened, I'm still the only one who can really analyze the situation, I'm the only one who will know what to do. You have to calm down, you have to realize this._

In the presence of something accepting, acceptance that seemed at the moment so unconditional, a tinge of fear and honesty brought a thought to mind.

_If I am...if I am a lock, what does that mean for me...?_

_You don't have to worry._ Something ruffled his hair. _You don't have to worry about that now, Edgar. You don't have to, I'll take care of it. I'll take care of it like I always have, I'll take care of it for you. I'm right here, I always have been, and I've protected you from so much. I can protect you from this too, I can handle this. I know I can. I can take anything that they throw at me, I can take it and fix it and make sure it doesn't hurt you. I can protect you far more effectively than Johnny ever could. I will protect you, as long as I have to._

The shift of responsibility. Edgar did it so often. The shift of the responsibility of his death to forces outside of his control, his fate out of his hands, his decisions to outside influences, all of it, all of it. It always happened to him, never with him. To absolve all responsibility, all worries, to the hands of someone capable. It wasn't something he was opposed to, it wasn't something he was unfamiliar with. His immortal soul trusted to the all knowing and all powerful. Comforting, it was comforting to have something to rely on, something to trust. It was comforting to know that there was nothing he could have done, nothing that he could do. That external locus of control. _You? You would take care of it?_

Still almost singing. _Of course I would, Edgar. You wouldn't have to think about it. Even if it is true, which we're not sure about. I'll take care of it. You don't have to worry. Just take me out of those memories. Don't rearrange your thoughts, don't rearrange what you see and what you hear. This is my reality, Edgar. My perceptions are yours, my senses are yours. You have more power than you think, my boy, you can affect more than you know. Don't do this to me, don't do this to yourself. You have more control than this, you're more intelligent than this, aren't you?_

Flattery that he normally would have rejected. Its source was suspect, but now he wasn't sure. _More intelligent..._

_Yes, you're more capable. You're stronger than this. You can handle more than this, you have handled more than this. This is nothing, this is a drop in the ocean. This is something that we can handle, something that we can deal with without collapsing into a catatonic trance, without resorting to screaming and childish behavior. You're more intelligent than that. You're more controlled than that. You know better than this, you know better than to change your thoughts to justify your reality. You know better._

_You're right..._ Edgar sighed softly, felt air brush against his skin. _You're right, I shouldn't be doing this..._

_That's right._ Scriabin said gently. _That's right, you're better than this. You can do better than this._

"I shouldn't have done that." Whispered words. "I don't have to do that. I don't have to resort to something like that. I don't have to do that at all. I can overcome this. Whether or not it's true, I can overcome this. The idea of it all...if it is true, then I can deal with it. I can overcome it. I shouldn't be afraid of it. I shouldn't be doing this. I can handle this."

_Yes, Edgar, that's right. I wasn't there, was I?_

"No...no you weren't." He was right. "You weren't there...I kept wondering where you were, I kept waiting for you to say something, but you didn't, not once. You weren't there...you weren't there."

_No, I wasn't. I told you I wasn't._

Emotions dampened, buried. "This is something I can handle. This is something I don't have to be afraid of. Maybe it did happen, maybe it didn't, but it doesn't matter. I'm still who I am, I'm still capable. I can think things through. I can beat this."

The pressure on his shoulders lifted. _Yes you can. We can beat this, Edgar. Now, stand up._

He stood, gathered the scattered sheets of paper in his hands. He felt calm, at peace. It was difficult to remember what he had been experiencing not too long ago, what he had felt and what he had thought. It seemed so irrational now, so...almost impossible.

Thoughts quieted, fell into logical patterns without emotion. Normalcy.

_You know, Edgar..._ He didn't flinch at his voice. _I'm just thinking...if you do turn out to be one of these waste-lock things...that means you can't die._

_We don't know that for sure yet._ Didn't notice his use of the word "we." _It may not even be an issue._

_True, but it's something I think that should be kept in mind..._ He sounded vaguely distracted. _You realize now, realize what you were doing and what you shouldn't do earlier?_

_Yes..._ He set the sheets of paper on his coffee table and carefully aligned them, matched edges to one another. Then he realized he wasn't sure why.

_Good. Now maybe we can actually get to work._ His voice hardened just that little bit, and that was enough for Edgar to remember exactly who he was talking to.

_You...why did you do that?_

_Do what, exactly?_

_Why were you...nice to me, like that?_

_Oh, that's no fun, Edgar._ Back to condescension again, familiar territory. _Let's play a different game. Why do YOU think I acted like that?_

_I...I don't know. You've never done that before._

_Well, surely I must have had a reason!_ Like he was talking to a child. Edgar hated that. _Go ahead, throw out a guess or two. I can't constantly work through your problems for you, you know._

There was an unspoken sentiment there, and Edgar realized why.

_...Because you might not always be there._

Silence.

He thought that maybe Scriabin's lack of response was just to motivate him to guess.

_I somehow doubt you care about me...it's hard for me to believe that with the way you phrase your words and your advice...it often seems deliberately to hurt or belittle me, just like the tone you were using earlier. Even if there is some level of concern within you for your host, for me, it's hard for me to find, trust, or appreciate it when it's hidden in such hatefulness. I don't think you really care about me, unless your way of showing that is even more twisted than Nny's._

Still silence.

_Scriabin?_

He heard something like rapid breathing in the back of his mind, so close that he almost turned around to make sure someone else wasn't in the room.

_Scriabin?_

His voice was almost a whisper. _I won't always be here._

Edgar's life was routine, it had always been routine. Even before Johnny had entered and changed his life, it was simple routine that got him through the motions of each day. The same time waking up, the same schedule, the same motions and words and actions every day. That repetition that made his life tolerable, and again shifted responsibility for his decisions onto his internal schedule.

Even after Johnny entered his life, he had struggled to work him, work his plans and his behavior, into that internal schedule. He had worked at planning things, working his life around him, finding a routine.

Scriabin's introduction to his house was a set place, a set place for the action figure to sit, and a set position for it to be in. Scriabin had settled into the routine of Edgar's life without any trouble, naturally and without effort. It seemed he had always been there.

And the voice, the voice in his mind that he found helpful and distracting and harmful, had started so quietly and so subtly that he couldn't place when it had begun, when Scriabin had begun to work his way into the routine of Edgar's life. Even as Scriabin had gained, or perhaps been given, more of his own emotions and feelings and opinions, it had always been worked into the routine, into the automated machine. Required no work, no maintenance. He had accepted Scriabin, he had accepted his growth, he had accepted his development by simply adapting to it as it happened.

Now although he hated Scriabin, hated his insistent insulting commentary and his comments that were all too true at the worst times, he had never thought of Scriabin _leaving_, in a way.

Even during his stay in the afterlife, if that's what that was, he had expected Scriabin to be there. He had grown used to his voice, accustomed to his insight, and the thought of losing that, even if he hated it so much, was...

He wasn't sure how he felt about that.

_Can you die?_

_Before..._ Scriabin sounded vaguely distracted. _Before, I would have said there was no chance. Now...after all this, after everything you've done in here...I don't know._

_Are you scared of me?_

_No._ Quick, steady answer in a level voice.

_Well, why not?_ Edgar ran a hand through his hair.

_Because you're a coward._ It wasn't a challenge, just a simple statement of fact. _You're a coward, and you don't want someone's blood on your hands, even if they don't really exist._ He sounded bitter. _Maybe you can kill me, maybe you can. I don't think so, but this whole...whatever just happened threw an unpleasant light on what you can potentially do. But you don't know how. More importantly, you don't have the motive._

_What? What do you mean, no motive? Of course I have a motive, I hate you-_

_I know you do, but that doesn't change anything, Edgar. You have no drive for that motive. It's not real. It's a thought, a comforting thought that erases anything more subtle, or more meaningful. Simple hate, and that's all. But not enough to murder, never enough to seriously want to kill, want me dead. Never enough and you know why? You need me. I think what just happened, what I just did for you, is ample proof of that. You need me as your balance, as your logic._

_I don't need you-_

_You can't even think of what it'd be like without me._ His voice was still level. _You're so used to me being here, so used to me antagonizing you, that there's no other reality for you. I am your reality, I'm real. Well, to you anyway._

_You're not real._ Just felt the urge to say something, something damaging. Wanted to hurt him. _You're just a voice in my head, a voice gone out of control. You can never be real. You need me, Scriabin._

_That-_

_You need me because I'm the only body you'll ever have. I'm the only way you can ever interact with the physical world, I'm your only link. That's why you were frightened before, when I began changing things. I'm your last chance. I'm your only window, I'm your only connection to anyone or anything! You need me! Maybe even more than I need you!_

_Y-_

_I'm real, I'm more real than you'll ever be, than you'll ever hope to be! You can never be better than me, you can never be more than me, because I'm real! You're just a figment pretending at reality! At least I have a physical body-_

He felt something white hot in the back of his mind, something that flared and burned like he looked at the sun and cut through his eyes, went through and burned and rage he could feel the rage and pain the intense burning vengeful hatred and something screaming and howling and

He was sitting in his car, and the car was parked in front of his church.


	18. Punish

_H...h...h-how did I...? When did I...?_

He was here. He was definitely here. This wasn't a dream.

_You don't remember?_ Hesitant whisper in the back of his mind, just loud enough to hear.

_I..._ Edgar looked around himself, looked to see if something else had happened that would explain his lapse, explain where he was and how he got here. The route to his mind blocked, information flow slowed in defense, an effort to more easily assimilate what had happened. It didn't hit him all at once. It couldn't. Trickles of information, the gradual logical realization with no emotion attached just yet.

Minor details rather than the entire scene. Forest for the trees. The enormity lost as he licked his lips.

Vague mint taste in his mouth...

Shaking, a kind of tremble that started low and worked its way through his chest and up to his hands. His body showed the signs long before he could name the emotion. Fear.

_Oh my God, oh my God, how did I, how how, how did I get here, I didn't- I don't remember-_

_You don't remember anything?_

_No!_ Edgar buried his hands in his hair, rested his head on the steering wheel. The leather felt warm. The engine was still on. The radio was silent. Oh God. Pieces coming together now, more information working through.

There was a moment of hesitation, some mumbling in the back of his mind, then Scriabin spoke slowly. _This is not a good sign, my boy._

_I must've done this but I can't remember anything, I can't remember anything at all. It's all...there isn't even a blur! There's nothing, no time, nothing! It's like someone ed- edited my life, it's like someone spliced two scenes together and- God, nothing, not even a clue not a single scrap of anything, I can't remember anything I should remember something, I have...what happened? What's happening to me?_

_Calm down, you're not making sense._ A moment of thought. _Have you checked the car? Maybe there's a clue of some kind._

Edgar lifted his head. He caught something black at the edge of his vision and looked down.

His trench coat. He was wearing his trench coat.

Blinding sudden panic, too quick to defend against and too strong to resist. He scratched his arm and knocked his glasses askew as he tore the coat from his body and threw it in the back-seat.

He sat and breathed hard, the sudden onset of cold raising the hair on his arms. Shivered, hoped it was from the cold. He wrapped his hands around his shoulders.

He wasn't wearing his seat-belt.

He felt something, a kind of vibration and trembling and he felt it, could feel it in his throat. He listened, found he was making a strange keening whine and forced himself to stop.

_Calm down._ Scriabin sounded thoughtful. _This isn't good for you..._

_What happened, what happened?_ Reality kicking in and he wasn't prepared for this. _Did I black out? Oh God, did, did someone take me here? Did, what happened, I don't remember, I can't remember anything, I can't-_

_Calm down. What's the last thing you remember?_

He looked out the window and saw it was drizzling. Still dark outside. How long had it been? Wait, the car was still on. Turned the key. As the engine shut off he realized it wasn't as silent as he thought. This new level of quiet was even worse. _I...I was talking to you. I was talking to you about something..._

_Something?_

_Um...something..._ It was hard to think. He couldn't shake this feeling that he had lost something, that he had lost far more than just time. Some kind of strange violation, a betrayal of his mind and body and memories. The blank spot in his mind where that time should have been became a fertile ground for everything that might have been. Growing panic. _Um...arguing. Arguing about something._

_Yes, that's right._ Scriabin sounded very calm. Perfect contrast. _That's right, an argument...hmm._

_It was 'cause..._ Struggled to think of anything, anything other than what could have happened while he...he wasn't here. _It was because you were being nice to me, and I didn't know why...we...I can't remember any of the details...everything gets fuzzy and then I'm here, and I can't-_

_It won't do any good to think about it now,_ Scriabin said in a matter-of-fact way and Edgar fell silent. _Whatever it was that just happened can't be undone, necessarily. The important thing now is to assess the damage. Later on, we can determine what caused this blackout and whether or not it can be avoided._

Edgar pulled his hands from his shoulders, ran them down his chest and across his shirt. _What should I check for? Oh God, anything could have happened to me, anything...oh God, was I wearing this? I was wearing this before, wasn't I? Oh God, what if..._

He put his hands in his pockets, felt his keys and his wallet. He ran a hand across his face and it felt smooth.

_Did...did I shave when I woke up?_

_I don't think whoever did this to you would have gone so far._ Scriabin sighed.

_Do...do you remember anything?_

A pause, then a soft laugh. _Me? Are you asking me?_

_Yes._ Edgar was...yes, he was too frightened to be offended or annoyed at his tone. _Do you?_

_Hmmm..._

Edgar checked himself over again as Scriabin thought. When he ran his hands across his lower ribcage, he felt a soft kind of ache in response to his touch. He lifted his shirt, looked a bit closer and saw that a bruise spread its way down his right side, ran down to his hip.

A moment of hyperventilation, shaking hands then necessary distraction to prevent further emotional damage.

He pulled out his wallet and ignored the lingering ache, checked through its contents, struggled to focus on something mundane. Couldn't remember how much he had in there originally, but he didn't carry a lot of cash with him anyway...all of his credit cards and identification still in place...

_No, I don't think I do._ Scriabin sounded amused. _Unfortunate._

_I...I can't believe this happened to me. Why here? Why now? Why me?_

_Questions you've asked before, but you've never gotten an answer._

_Oh God, anything could have happened...I could have been-, I'd rather have a blur than just nothing, than just this sudden jump-_

_Stop thinking about it for now. It won't help you. You need to calm down._

_How can I calm down? How can I-_

_You know as well as I do how to calm down._ Scriabin sighed. _Just think about something else. That's your specialty._

Edgar turned and looked at the church. Worn red stone with a dead lawn, although one could see where someone had gamely tried to cultivate some flowers without much success. There were two small spotlights that illuminated the carved wooden doorway and inside he could see the faint glow of candles through colored glass. He wasn't in the position to make out the sign at the moment, although he was sure it was nearby.

Stared.

_Maybe...maybe I should..._

_Hmm?_

_Maybe...maybe I...maybe I drove here for a reason..._

_If you did drive here._

_Oh God..._ He shut his eyes at the thought. Focus on something else, anything else.

He felt in the back-seat for his coat. He didn't want to wander in the rain without some kind of protection and his coat was all he had. _I'm so...I can't believe this is happening..._

_Yes...this isn't good, is it?_

_I...I can't think about this now, I need..._

_Hmm?_

He opened the car door, stepped out, and threw on his coat with one smooth movement. He shut the door, then quickly looked over his car. He didn't see any new damage...

_What do you need?_

_I..._ It was hard to say, especially to him. He locked the doors and made his way towards the church.

_Because if there's one thing you don't need, it's this._

The inside of the church was not much warmer than the outside. There were candles lit, although from the distance and with his broken glasses, Edgar couldn't tell if they were real or artificial. A bowl of holy water near the door, pews extending to the pulpit, all empty. He let the door close behind him, hopefully leaving the issue of his lost time outside. The dull noise echoed across the vaulted ceilings, emphasized the silence that came after.

No sense of peace...

_No, I wouldn't imagine so. Not anymore, I don't think._

_No,_ Edgar thought. He took a few determined steps down between the pews, glanced at the stained glass windows on either side of him. Felt his fingers twitch. _No, not this time._

_No to what, exactly?_

_I...I'm not going to argue about this with you. Not here, and not now. I need this._ There, he said it. He took a seat and shook himself off.

_You don't need this._

_Yes I do!_ A moment to compose himself. _This is one thing I won't let you touch._

_You can't stop me._

_Yes I can._

_When have you ever?_ A pause, and Edgar didn't respond. _Listen, I'm going to be somewhat kind. I'm going to give you a warning._

_What? A warning against what?_

_Remember the last time I did this to you? You used to be a bit more resilient back in the day, but that's apparently not the case now. Last time I did this, the last time that I told you the truth, you handled it less than admirably._

He wanted to say that that wasn't the truth.

Scriabin continued. _So I'm going to give you a warning this time. I am going to cut your umbilical cord._

_My what?_

_I'm going to pull you out of your pathetic womb and I'm going to make you live._

_What are you talking about?_

_I'm going to deconstruct everything you believe in. I will bring these exalted ceilings down around you and show you what you've locked yourself away from for so long, tear apart the bindings you so willingly entrap yourself in._

_The hell you are._

_I'm going to do it, and you'll thank me for it later. But I want you to be prepared. I would rather not have you pass out halfway through this, our little session together. That would be far from productive._

_You can't do this to me. You can't do that._

_Spend your time however you like._ Edgar got the impression that Scriabin shrugged somehow. _I'm giving you a warning, not a choice._

_You can't take this away from me!_ Edgar shouted in his mind and felt his nails digging into his palms. _This is all I have!_

_No it isn't._ He sounded bored. _You can spend your time arguing with me, if you like. Maybe we can consider it a warm-up-_

_No! You're not touching this!_

_Empty threats._

_I..._ Edgar struggled to think of any time Scriabin had been afraid, anything that he could exploit, could use to back himself up. _I...I can rewrite my memories again, I could do that, I will do that if you don't leave me alone-_

_Ha. You can try. You know why that worked before? For one thing, I wasn't prepared, and for the second, you were truly motivated. You were completely delusional. I'm afraid you can't turn that on and off at will. Besides, what memory will you edit me into anyway? You already did that with your previous tantrum, you threw me into practically everything, regardless of relevance-_

_I will, I swear to God-_

_Okay, I'm tired of waiting._ He heard a snap. _It's time. Are you ready?_

_You're not doing this-_

_God has turned his back on you, Edgar._

_No He hasn't._ He wasn't going to let this happen, not without a fight. Scriabin sighed in a way that was becoming increasingly familiar.

_I can see what this will be like. Doesn't make that much of a difference...it's not even something we're unfamiliar with, is it? At any rate, where was I...? Ah yes. God has turned his back on you, Edgar, and you have turned your back on him._

_I have not!_ Felt the urge to shout that, to hear it reverberate from the high empty ceilings, but controlled himself.

_The minor details I'll bring up later, but let's focus on the most damning evidence first. Your time in the afterlife..._

Complete and total shock. A real and tangible loss of body heat, he was sure, and his mouth fell open.

_You...you're not..._

_From what I can gather, you met God, didn't you? And Satan as well, and they didn't exactly match up with your current belief system, did they?_

_You...you can't-! ...You said we'd...we'd work on it together, you said you'd leave it alone!_ His mental voice getting louder and it kept breaking. _You said you didn't know! You, you said you wouldn't hurt me, you said you wouldn't touch that-_

_Oh Edgar. You really are so naive._

He had worked so hard, he had worked so hard to keep this from him, to keep this memory a secret for this exact reason, and then, then...he had been tricked, he had fallen for it, he had fallen for false sincerity, he had grasped for that scrap of outright affection and, and...

A deep sense of betrayal, pain manifesting in his hands shaking uncontrollably, his throat tightening. And underneath it all, that disappointment and disgust he felt for himself for having been so gullible, for having been used so easily.

_Remember, my boy..._ Scriabin's voice was soft, mimicked the tender tone he had used before. _This is for your benefit._

_I c-can't...I can't believe you're doing this..._ Couldn't process information, couldn't block. That moment of vulnerability, when he foolishly gave away his trust, gave away responsibility, repeating and repeating and repeating. _I can't believe you're doing this to me...I can't believe..._

_You may think I'm hurting you._ That same soothing voice. He felt his skin heating, prickling underneath the bandage beneath his eye. His eyes stung and something twitching somewhere, maybe his hands or maybe he was just shaking. _It may seem that way now. In the end, you'll thank me. You need me, Edgar, you need me to do this for you._

_Stop..._ He couldn't logically fight, not now. He hadn't been prepared for this, and that in itself hurt just as much. _Stop...don't do this to me..._

_Now, if this information is true, which it probably is, that means that your soul is no longer in God's hands._

_Stop, stop please...how...how could you hurt me like this..._

_You're in the hands of something else now, some kind of strange system, although they didn't elaborate. You are now outside their jurisdiction. Satan mentioned it...that he and, as one can extrapolate, God, have no power over that system's decisions. You are outside now, Edgar, outside the realm of gods and devils. You are a free entity, untouchable by all others._

Edgar crossed his arms on the back of the pew in front of him, pressed his forehead against the folds of his coat hard so he could feel the ache.

_How could you do this to me...? How can you do this to me?_

And he wasn't listening and he kept talking and oh God, why won't he listen? _God cannot touch you. The Devil cannot touch you. God doesn't care either, Edgar, as he showed you when you met him. He does not care about you. I somehow doubt he ever will. And I doubt that he would care at all if you ended up right back in Hell, like Satan suggested you would._

Shivering.

_If you are damned already, which at this point is fairly likely I would say, judging from your current behavior, then there's no reason to continue with this charade. There's no reason to torture yourself like this anymore. There's no reason to play the martyr, drive more nails into your willing hands. You don't have to hurt yourself over your behavior anymore. Restraint without motive is pointless. You have no motivation to be good, Edgar, as there is no longer any kind of reward. And lord knows, there is no such thing as true altruism._

Too hurt by the lie, too deeply hurt by the flagrant betrayal of his trust to muster any kind of argument, to even revert to his most oft-used defense of denial, too hurt to do anything more than beg for mercy.

_Please...please, please don't..._

_But you may be wondering, you may be wondering about the support that your god gives you. What could be the harm in that? Perhaps Heaven is not your primary motivation, but instead the thought of unconditional love from some source, some source beyond your control. The thought of someone who is always there, will always listen, and will always support you invisibly. The greatest placebo of them all._

Energy expended, now shivering in waves.

_And that is one of my primary reasons for doing this. You're depending on something else, something unreliable and in the end destructive, to support you when you should be depending on yourself. You should depend on your own strength, your own ability. You should find your strength in yourself, in your character, not in a pleasant fantasy._

_I'm not strong...I'm not strong enough..._ Hoped the admission of weakness could stop this, that offering his throat would stop the attack, grant the dominance that he was sure must have motivated him. Heard his breath hissing past his teeth, felt the brief warmth through the fabric of his coat.

_Yes you are, Edgar._ Authority in his voice that he could not question. _You just don't want to admit it. You've always had the capacity for change, you've always had that power. You've always been the master of your own fate. You have the ability to make decisions, you have the ability to take charge, to control what's happening to you. You've always had that power but you've never used it. You've never believed in yourself to see it. You've never had the strength to find it. You've always fallen back on your support lines. You've always shifted responsibility for yourself, for your fate, for your happiness, for every stupid little thing to your god. That way it's out of your hands. That way you're safe. That's not healthy, Edgar. You're capable of so much more._

_I trusted you..._

_You did. And look where it's gotten you. You shifted responsibility for yourself onto me, and look where it's gotten you._

His breath caught, trapped in his throat, a short gasp and he tried to stop what he knew was coming.

_How could you do this to me..._

_Do you think this is a bad thing? No, silly question. I can feel your pain quite acutely. You think that shifting that responsibility to me was a bad thing. There's a difference between me and your god, Edgar. There's a big difference. I am here to motivate you, and I will motivate you to change. I will direct you, influence you, and force you to find that power. I will find your strength, I will find the power you used to have, and I will show you how to use it. I will give you your life back. I won't sit back and let you lead a life of lies, like your god was so fond of doing. I will give you strength, the strength you need to fight the system and stop the decay you know is coming._

Mental voice growing weak and high. _I don't want to depend on you..._

_Well, good! You shouldn't want to depend on anyone except yourself. You are the only constant in this world, Edgar. This entire scenario, it's always been under your control. You are the only one who can save yourself. There is no time for lies and false redemption. You don't need God, Edgar. You never did. You need yourself._

Pulling back further, further, trying to get away from the thing that burned and pain, get somewhere safe. _I do, I do need Him, I can't do this alone-_

_You won't do this alone, remember? I'm here. I said I'd be here, and I will be. I will be your greatest asset in the challenge to come, Edgar. I will be your greatest gift, your weapon against whatever fate is in store for you. I won't let you sit back and take it anymore. I won't let you give your life away to other people. I will be your change, your catalyst. I will take everything wrong about you and make it right. I will work and fight and push you until you win, until you break free of this system and you can live your own life again. I will work to preserve your sanity, I will give you the mental power, the fortitude, the motivation to stand against the coming storm because I will strip away the lies, the false shields and the defense mechanisms that stand in your way. Your god can't do that. He wouldn't want to do that. He's content to stand idly by, to let you go. What kind of loving and merciful god would let this happen to a child so devoted, so dedicated to him? What kind of god would leave you to some other system's machinations without a second glance, as you know your god has done? He doesn't care about you. He doesn't love you. These are facts, Edgar, not beliefs. You know this is true._

Tiny words written in a child's hand, scribbled with crayon on a piece of construction paper and slid under a door. Reassurance, reassurance, everything will be okay, everything will be okay as long as

_He does..._

_God doesn't care about you, Edgar._ stop hurting me _You're nothing to him._ stop hurting me _You're insignificant, a minor cog_ i cant make it stop _that fell out of place. You're part of something bigger now,_ i dont want this to be true _something outside his control._ please tell me you're lying and _Your god can't save you now._

make me stop believing you

Finality, reality. The door slammed and caught and a faint scream from far away, long ago.

_Your god can't save you now._

A choked sob, and his entire body tensed and tried to erase it, tried to stop breathing. Tears soaked into his jacket, his eyes clenched shut and willing, willing with every fiber in his being for it to stop. An immediate subconscious mental tirade that demanded that the tears stop, that he find some other method of dealing with it than something so childish, useless, and weak. Stop crying right now. It won't help you. What kind of man are you stop that immediately

Scriabin was quiet for a few seconds as Edgar struggled to get himself back under control. Furiously erasing erasing erasing.

He hovered on the edge. His breathing was shaky and came in gasps and his eyes still watered. Under control by only a few threads, a few threads of doubt and hope that were all he had.

There was no cruelty in his voice. _The only one who can save you now is yourself. Don't you understand? It's up to you, Edgar. You can't depend on anyone else anymore. God won't help you. You're out of his hands. You've been cut away from him, forever removed from his grace and shining light or whatever it was._

Snip.

_He has abandoned you. He has left you for dead. Nothing you say, no prayers and no pleading, no begging for forgiveness, will bring him back. Nothing, no one will take this cup away from you, Edgar. It's up to you, it's up to you to overcome this. He will not save you._

Snip. Snip.

_God has abandoned you._ god no please _You are alone._ no oh god NO NO

_Completely alone._

A loud sob tore through his throat, echoed in an empty church. Reality hit hard and it hit without mercy. Emptiness that fueled tears and made it hard to breathe.

_He is gone,_ Scriabin said softly. _He will not come back for you. You know this. You know this is true. He has abandoned you._

Racking pain, emotional that tore its way through his stomach, his chest, ripped through his throat and he struggled not to make too much noise, not to disturb anyone else who may be here. He kept his eyes shut, his face hidden. Could feel the welling up of deep pain, of deep emotional pain that never found a previous voice that worked through his body so slowly, came from his mouth so loudly. Not sobs but loud whines, half-screams caught and cut short.

Edgar wept.

He wasn't sure for how long. It was the first time that he could really remember ever doing something like this, ever crying this hard over anything. Over everything. He had no frame of reference.

Sometimes the motion, the action took precedence over his thoughts and he wasn't sure why he was sobbing so hard, just that he was doing it and he couldn't stop, he just couldn't stop. Every time he took a deep breath, struggled to find those defenses that had protected him against this for so long, he touched that same kind of pain. The uprooting of something he had used so long as support, as a way to bury everything, as a way to block reality, as a way to make his life tolerable and give it meaning through something other than other people. He would touch that wound, that deep and fresh wound and pain would shoot through him again, the memories of Hell and what he'd seen and the thought of what would happen to him, and the deep fear and knowledge that he was right, Scriabin was right. He had no one to turn to now, no one except himself.

And within that wound, he found something that had been bleeding, something infected and deep and painful, something that had worked its way into his thoughts for so long that it was barely noticed, the thousand capillaries that never warranted further attention. Infection deep from a time he couldn't remember, from a wound he never healed and never tried to heal, simply ignored and hoped it would go away. Within that, within all of the pain of having his support stripped away, he found his true fear, the real fear that made him resort to all of this, this distance and the relationships and the reliance on others, the reliance on others for his decisions and his life and he was scared. He was scared that he couldn't do it. He didn't know how, he didn't know what he was doing, he didn't think he could do it. He didn't have the confidence, he didn't have the knowledge, and he didn't have the ability and he was going to die, he was going to lose. He was going to lose everything. He needed this, he needed someone to take this responsibility off his hands and tell him what to do because he'd just end up ruining it, he'd just end up ruining it and burning his hands and he couldn't do this alone, he never could do this alone, he always had someone, someone in the back of his mind that he could turn to, that could make the laws that he could follow because he couldn't decide for himself, too petrified of making the wrong decision, too afraid to ruin something he didn't even have so he gave it to someone else, he gave everything to God and kept the emptiness and called it his life.

And when he touched that part of him he recoiled so violently that it was blotted out immediately, wiped from his memory through countless years of practice and resigned back into that dull ache, that ache that gave this new wound, this missing part of him, the potential to hurt as much as it did.

He touched it once, had a moment of self-revelation that terrified him so completely that his entire body shook with the force of his next cry of pain, that the shudder of his body only encouraged him, only encouraged more tears and hatred at those tears and memories gone gone gone. Pulled and found the roots ran too deep and now never touching that again.

There was more present pain, something more real and powerful, and that was enough to focus on.

Nothing from Scriabin. He didn't hear it, didn't catch that momentary blip on the radar as Edgar approached the truth then vengefully scribbled over it, crossed it out and turned and killed and thrust it deep, pushed it away so strongly that he wasn't aware he did it himself, and there was enough pain going on at the moment that it'd be hard to differentiate one spike from the other.

A good thing that, at least. A good thing that this came and went as quickly as it did, a wound too early to open, too painful to touch, not now.

Gulping breaths, pain pressing into the bridge of his nose, entire body shaking in fits. The lenses of his glasses caught tears, kept them even when eventually the sobbing quieted and he could feel something approaching control.

It took some time for control to find a lasting hold. At first he would feel as though the storm was over but then a stray thought would send him back into what had happened, into what the future held for him and him alone, and control would vanish again. Several tries and failed attempts before he really began to feel as though he could at least stop crying. And the easiest way to prevent failure was to consider what had caused that failure, and that was feeling. So control sunk in and feeling faded, a tradeoff that he was more than happy to make.

His lapse of control, the realization of what he had been doing, prompted a flood of something like shame at having resorted to something so useless and self-indulgent, at having lost control so completely. Emotion that was quick, intense, instinctual and then forgotten.

When he finally leaned back against the wood of the pew, he felt deeply, deeply empty inside. More so than he ever had in his life. His emotions typically ran a minor gamut, small fluctuations barely noticed, and he thought at those times that maybe he felt empty, because he didn't feel much. But this was different. He didn't feel much then but now, now he felt absolutely nothing.

He stared at his coat, shook the tears from his glasses, took a few deep breaths. His entire body still shaking, shivered and he felt weak. Nothing except physical sensation coming through anymore, nothing logical connected with anything resembling real emotions. Empty inside, everything gone.

_You won't be entirely alone,_ Scriabin said softly and it was that same gentle voice as before, that faint almost musical tinge. He sounded deeply sincere, as if he really did want to soothe the hurt, comfort him somehow. If Edgar cared at this point he would have been suspicious. He didn't care. _Remember, you won't be entirely alone. I'll be here with you._

Edgar didn't want to say anything. He didn't want to do anything. Wanted to sit here and never move again for the rest of his life.

_I can support you. I can teach you, I can show you how to take control. I'll figure out how to beat this, and we will beat this. You can depend on me, because I'll be here. I will work for you, I will work to help you through this. I will find what's right for you, not for your god. I will contribute in ways that are tangible, that will have solutions. I can do everything your god can't. I won't abandon you. Believe in me. Believe in me._

Nothing. He could hear his words, he was understanding them, but he felt nothing in response. He felt absolutely nothing. He could see the polished wood and tiny pencil and the black book with its golden embossed letters and the crucifix that marked its vocation in front of him, he could see and hear but nothing, nothing worked through. He didn't want to feel anything. He wanted to stay like this, stay comfortably numb.

Wanted to stay here forever, just drift away. Never feel, never think, never go back to his life. Face the future. Never wanted to feel again.

Scriabin tried to force a carefree tone into his voice without success. _Come now, that wasn't so bad, was it? It didn't take as long as I thought, and it wasn't as difficult as I thought it would be. And you stayed with me through the whole ordeal, and you even expressed some emotion, some real emotion for once. I'd say we've made progress, wouldn't you?_

Nothing. Like Scriabin was talking to someone else. Didn't move.

_You have nothing to fear now._ Still talking softly, although he abandoned the pretense of nonchalance. _Ethics have no meaning to you. There is nothing to stop you, there is nothing that can stop you now. A whole new world is open for you, is open to you. You've unlocked your real potential now. You can become who you were meant to be. You can become strong, you can become assertive, you can become more than what you had resigned yourself to before. Now you can beat this. Now you can find your real strength._

Didn't want to think anymore. Tired, so tired. Wanted to stop existing. Not die necessarily but stop existing.

Didn't want to deal with this.

Didn't want to deal with his life. His decisions. What the future held for him, what he knew would be in store.

A heaven for me, and a hell for you.

Oh God.

_Come on, get up._ Gentle nudging words. Maybe Scriabin had enough tact to know that now was not the time for sarcasm. _Let's get out of here. I think it stopped raining._

_I don't want this to happen to me. I don't want this._

_Well, neither did I. I warned you, didn't I? I tried to warn you. Now it's time to pick up the pieces, it's time to fix what you've done wrong._ Hard to mask resentment left open so long. _It's time to do what you've put off for so long. It's time to fight, Edgar._

Mental voice pulling back and he sounded like a child. _I don't want...I dont want to be me. i dont want to be me anymore._

_It's too late for that._ A voice familiar somehow, a memory cast aside and Edgar's fear quickly driven deep, hidden. A shallow attempt at confidence, but at least it was an attempt. Scriabin sensed this, changed the tone of his voice. _Let's go outside._

_take this away from me..._ Curled up in the corner of his room, small hands buried in short hair, voice not yet changed and a body before real awkwardness. Small and insignificant, insignificant in the face of everything. Six years old and gone. _take this away from me, please, make it stop hurting..._

A questioning noise.

Rocking back and forth, wishing for some kind of human contact, something reassuring, some kind of love from someone somewhere even if it wasn't intangible something. _take this away from me, take this away from me, give me back my life, give me back..._

_What life did you have?_ Quiet and emotionless.

Running even deeper. _someone someone someone take this away from me._ Nails digging into the back of his neck. _please take this away please someone take this away from me, i dont know what to do, i dont know what to do, someone take this..._

A noise from Scriabin he wasn't sure how to classify.

_please make it stop hurting...make it stop, make it different, take my life and make it good again, someone fix it, someone fix everything, please..._ A shaky gasp. _...Scriabin, Scriabin, please..._

He heard Scriabin take a deep breath.

_please help me...please help me take this away from me...fix it fix it please, i dont know how, i dont know what to do i dont know how to make it better, i cant fix it, please, someone...someone take it and make it right, please...Scriabin..._

_I..._

Deep weakness, such deep weakness and that counter-voice that ran far below what either of them consciously heard, something stronger and long-lived, something much older than Scriabin could hope to be. Contempt for that weakness, outright contempt.

Ripped, ripped from the womb too early. Scriabin's metaphor perhaps had been too apt.

_Scriabin, please..._ Felt his muscles tightening again, but he had no more tears to shed. Not now, not with that sense of shame, the self-loathing that came with admitting weakness. The words came desperate and honest and in a voice Edgar thought he forgot and wanted to forget. _Scriabin please, please please help me, please help me, i cant do this, i cant do this alone, i cant do this by myself, i need help, i need you to fix it, i need you to take it away from me, please oh god please take this away from me, erase everything ive done and i dont know what to do oh god ive ruined everything ive ruined everything_

_Oh Edgar..._ Real affection, it sounded real. Familiar too. Cynical side of him tried to match it, found it matched the voice of old memories. A tone that was kept deep inside his life and his thoughts, his definition of emotion and affection and of course, of course that's what Scriabin would use for sincerity. Isn't it obvious?

All words to try and build fear, to try and build distrust and fear and it didn't work. At the sound of that affection, whether faked or not, Edgar reached out. He had been burned once, he had been betrayed in a way so painful he couldn't bear to think about it now, but he reached out anyway. As he saw it, he had no choice.

_take this away from me, Scriabin, please...Scriabin..._

_Edgar..._ Trying to find words. _I..._

_don't abandon me, don't abandon me, i cant do this by myself_

That voice, the logic that he so often depended on, running a diagnostic check on his words in the background and beeping and clicks not noticed. After all this time, he finally admitted it, finally admitted he needed someone else, and now Scriabin would surely use this against him.

That soft weight on his shoulders, the brush of air against his cheek. Closed his eyes and hoped, hoped and he could feel Scriabin's arms settled around his neck, the touch of his fingers on his skin.

_I won't leave you, Edgar..._ Edgar wanted him to sound sincere so badly, so he did. _Not now. I won't abandon you._

_take this away from me..._

_I can't do that._ Felt Scriabin briefly nuzzle his neck. Or maybe the wind was playing with his coat. Reality was not welcome right now. _It'd be nice if I could, if I could go back and erase all of the things you've done. But I can't. I can only deal with the aftermath._

Edgar didn't care if guilt was relegated back to him, as long as the consequences...

_tell me what to do..._

_Edgar..._ A soft sigh, his fingers tracing along his neck, felt his heartbeat. _Edgar, that's what I do best._

A sigh of relief, kind of.

_Believe me, Edgar._ Arms curled around his neck, some kind of awkward embrace. _You don't need God...now, you are God._

He didn't want to ask questions or for any kind of clarification.

A deep and intense need within him, something lost through countless years through the processed lines of data, something lost through thoughts and gone. A plea repeated through his life and only answered through the one thing that gave his life meaning, through the prayers he held and the scapular he had been given when he was young. Only answered once, he thought it was answered once and answered permanently that once and then, and then he was lied to, he had been lied to, that love was a lie and it was gone and dead and now that need rose again, desperate and raw and it fought through the computer and through the blanket that suffocated all emotion and all pain.

_love me...?_

_Oh Edgar..._ A soft sigh. _You're so far gone now, it wouldn't even matter. Maybe someday, when you're more aware, we can really discuss this. But you're not in your right mind, and..._

He wasn't sure what Scriabin intended to say. He simply trailed off.

He wasn't there, he knew it. The arms around him weren't there and he couldn't feel him breathing. He just wished he could.

_It's been long enough._ His voice was soft and gentle. _It's been long enough now. Regression is never a good idea, not for such long periods of time. It's time to come back, to wake up._

_i dont want to come back._

_I know. But it's time for responsibility. Take a few deep breaths, and come back to me._

He didn't want to, but the words he chose were perfect. Perhaps not his intent, but they were.

To me.

Someone to come back to, an order to obey, someone to please and hopefully gain recognition in return, but mostly just someone to come back to. Someone to come back to for any reason at all.

Let the beeping, the monotonous click come back, dial tone and the gradual reset. Rather than work through all the emotions lying about he just shoved them all away. Erased, deleted them. Logic found a stronger hold, worked through emotion and erased memory. Embarrassing thoughts relocated, pushed to the back of the mind, and a renewed sense of determination, determination to find something else to do to get his mind off what he had experienced, what he had done.

_That's better._

_Was that what you expected?_ Arguing with him was a quick distraction. _Was that what you thought would be helpful? Was that what you were hoping for?_

A brief pause, and he could hear the smile. _Much better, I would say. Feeling a bit more combative, and that's something I'm more comfortable with. You're more comfortable with it too, I'd imagine. There's no harm in taking time to heal, after all. Traumatic doesn't even begin to describe what just happened._

_I don't want to talk about it._

Scriabin laughed and Edgar found himself smiling. He knew precisely why he would say that, what his motivations would be. Still, it was a convenient excuse, something they both understood, and besides.

Healing. Right.

_Let's go outside. I really do think the rain has stopped. I can't hear anything._

Edgar stood. He nearly fell at first, his legs shaky and weak, but he eventually managed to find his sense of balance. He walked out of the church with only one second glance.

True enough, no rain. The sky was dark and there were no stars. He vaguely wondered what time it was, but that wasn't really important. The streetlights were on and that was enough.

He looked to one side as he stood in the doorway and caught sight of a narrow flight of stairs leading back around the edge of the church, just barely lit by the nearby streetlight.

_I remember..._

Not like he had anywhere else to be. He took a few cautious steps down, watched for puddles, and slowly the old church playground came into view. No real direct light sources here, it wasn't a place to be after dark, but the streetlights on the sidewalk nearby gave him enough illumination.

Old memories, memories of happier times, he thought or hoped.

The playground was slightly recessed compared to the rest of the area, a natural wall to prevent curious children from going too far. Bushes hid most of the chain-link fence from view. Brightly colored plastic constructions, an old swing-set, some benches, a sandbox, metal jungle gym.

Something strangely calming about a playground in the dark. Empty yet harmless.

Edgar walked over to the swings and took a seat. He was too tall for this now and his knees came up higher than they should have. Didn't matter. Seat was wet as well, but he didn't care.

He looked up towards the darkened sky, thought about where he was. He spoke softly but he wasn't exactly sure who he was talking to.

"Every Sunday when I was little...when we came here...this was always what I looked forward to. I always waited for the sermon to be over so I could play out here..."

_"Edgar does not play well with others." How ironic._

"That's right..." Edgar sighed. "That's what they'd write about me...good student, does his work, does not play well with others..."

Pushed lightly and listened to the creak of aged metal trying to support a grown man's weight.

_Listen, Edgar..._

_What?_

_I think it'd be best if from now on, while you're recovering, while we're making plans to overcome this lock business, if you stayed away from-_

Something rustled nearby and he turned sharply towards the noise.

_Shit._ Scriabin almost sounded disappointed.

"Hello...?" Maybe not his smartest move, but at least it let whoever it was who had joined him know he was here.

A gawky teenager eventually managed to extricate himself from the bushes that encircled the playground. He brushed himself off carefully, adjusted his clothes and fishnet gloves, picked up his suitcase, and began walking briskly towards Edgar.

A slight twinge of nervousness along with familiarity. That hair...it was cut in a style that Edgar knew wasn't common. The tattered sleeves, the box on the front of his shirt, and the boots...

_God fucking dammit,_ Scriabin muttered. _I was so close..._

Not particularly paying attention to Scriabin at the moment. The teenager came closer. Definitely headed for Edgar. That in itself was bizarre...Edgar never generated attention. Something he had accepted over time, but to be the center of someone's attention like this...

_Well, someone other than Nny that is._ Still sounded bitter.

Being someone's focus made him nervous.

The youth circled him once, apparently completely unaware of how strange this behavior may have seemed, then stopped in front of him. Now that he was close enough Edgar could make out the definite signs of acne over the majority of his face.

"Hey!" A strangely casual tone, as if he knew Edgar already.

A moment's pause, which was all Edgar was sure he would get. "...Hello?"

"Your name is Edgar, isn't it?"

"...Who are you? Why do you want to know?"

_Good, you didn't just give out information._

He didn't seem put off by the suspicious tone in Edgar's voice.

"I'm Jimmy." He put a hand to his chest. "But you can also call me 'Mmy,' heh. Some of my friends also call me 'Darkness.' Cool, huh?"

_This can't be what it looks like, there's no way that someone would ever..._

Scriabin was trying very hard not to laugh. _You've got to be kidding me..._

"Okay, uh...how do you know my name?"

_Nice job, just confirmed that was your name._

_Well, what's he going to do with it anyway?_

"I've been following you." Jimmy grinned and Edgar realized he had no idea how potentially creepy that would sound. For all intents and purposes, Jimmy was speaking to Edgar as if they were friends or acquaintances, as if they had talked several times before tonight. He spoke as if he expected Edgar to know exactly what he was talking about. It was disconcerting on several levels. "Just watching you and Johnny. Well...mostly Johnny, but you were usually there too. He's who I'm looking for..."

_Of course, looking for Johnny. What other reason to follow me could there be?_

_That would explain his choice in fashion, I suppose._ Scriabin snickered.

Jimmy sounded so familiar with him and Edgar felt exceedingly awkward for not having anything close to similar feelings towards him. The strength of Jimmy's conviction forced Edgar's tone to be kinder than it normally might have been. "I...guessed as much...?"

"Well, not looking for exactly. No, not looking anymore. I've finally been able to track him down after all this time! I've found him, I finally found him!" Jimmy sounded deeply enthused by the idea. The more excited he felt and acted, the more distant Edgar felt. The sheer bizarreness of the situation, of the conversation, seemed completely unreal. This couldn't be happening. "I'm going to go talk to him but I have to ask you some things first. I thought you'd know and all, since you're with him a lot of the time."

Jimmy started as if to sit down next to him but then stopped. Frankly Edgar was seriously uncomfortable, and maybe his body language made it clear that Jimmy'd be better off staying where he was.

Jimmy stared at him expectantly, and Edgar felt as though he had to say something. He still felt unbelievably detached from the entire conversation and found that as a result, he could think of absolutely nothing to say.

"So...you've been stalking us, basically." Just rephrase the situation.

_So you did pick up something from those pop psychology books._

"I wouldn't call it that." Jimmy looked dramatically stricken. "This runs a lot deeper than that, this is more than any mere 'stalking.'" He emphasized the quotation marks with his fingers and a roll of his eyes. "This is about _art_."

"Art?" Edgar thought back, remembered the paintings he had seen so long ago. Was this a friend of Johnny's from-

"Yes, art." Jimmy sighed. "Well, I don't know if you'd understand...I never saw you kill anyone-"

Edgar stifled a small gasp and immediately recoiled away from him.

_So he's that kind of admirer. How perfect is this. I couldn't ask for something better than this._

Now the familiarity of his tone made Edgar feel almost...dirty. This was not the kind of person he wanted to be associated with in any way, and in particular, not the kind of person he wanted to be stalked by.

_Oh ho ho, I'm taking notes on this. This is going to be great._

Jimmy continued. "But I saw you there most of the time, when Johnny descended on the unworthy." The change in his tone and the smile confirmed Edgar's suspicions. "God, it's so beautiful! To see those people who think they're so great get shown what they really are inside! To see real justice!"

_Justice...you think this is about justice? You think this is righteous somehow? He's- how...h-how can...you have...you have no concept of human life, you can't be serious..._

Edgar didn't think that he was hiding his disgust very well, but Jimmy apparently didn't notice. "You saw it, you were there the longest. I mean, you really saw it!" Again, that excited almost-squeal. "You were right there when Johnny showed them, showed everyone! You were there, right there when Johnny dispensed real justice on the scum of the earth!"

_My goodness, this sounds familiar! Didn't we talk about this back when you encountered that pedophile?_ Scriabin trying to talk and laugh at the same time.

Jimmy stretched out a hand. Edgar feared for a moment that he'd try to touch him, but Jimmy just gestured at the sky. "You remember the best times, don't you? You know, back when he didn't talk so much, when he didn't let the killing get to him and it was a lot funnier. That's what I want to tell him when we meet, I want to tell him that the blood is what matters. Isn't that a cool phrase?"

_You think this is funny!_ Couldn't stop the indignant mental scream. _How could, how could you think someone dying is funny, how could someone ever think that, my God...!_

_He does have a point though._ Scriabin forcing words out between gales of laughter. _Nny does tend to talk a lot more nowadays, doesn't he?_

_Oh my God, how can someone..._

"Didn't talk so much..." Edgar felt a strong twinge of nausea, and Scriabin stopped laughing for a few seconds.

"Yeah, when he was always going on with all those _words_." Jimmy waved a dismissive hand. "I think Johnny's losing his focus on what's really important. The beauty of what he does, the art of _death_." A longing sigh. "It's so beautiful, to see the last spark of life burn out under your hands, to know that you brought awareness of someone else's pointless bleak existence to them the moment before they fade from this cruel world."

_Oh god, gothic poetry- gothic poetry! This can't get any better._

Edgar wasn't listening to Scriabin. "You...you think what he does is beautiful...?"

"It _is_ beautiful!" Jimmy turned his attention back to Edgar. He sounded vaguely offended at the question, no doubt expecting Edgar to understand what he was saying immediately. "You must understand, you're with him all the time. You know those bullies, those close-minded weaklings who always mock people who are better than they are. You know there are people out there who deserve to die, but there are so few who can actually do it, actually _kill_! I couldn't believe it when I first saw Johnny work, I couldn't believe he did what I dreamed of! He got _revenge_!"

_You don't understand anything...oh my God..._ Stronger twinge of nausea, and this time Scriabin really did stop laughing.

"Oh God, it's so sweet to get revenge." Jimmy hissed with excitement through his teeth. "Johnny showed me I don't have to take it, I can do just what he can! And it felt so good, the first person I-"

_Oh God, oh my God, he's killed people too-_

Edgar felt dizzy, a faint blackness on the edge of his vision, and then he heard a shocked hiss in the back of his mind. Something pushing and the blackness slowly faded away.

_Goddammit. You stupid fanboy, couldn't you have waited a day or so? This would be perfect if he wasn't so fragile right now._

_I...this can't be..._

Sigh of frustration. _Don't think too hard about this just yet. Maybe in a few hours, but not right now. Just try and make it through this conversation without passing out._

Jimmy had been talking during Edgar's brief mental interlude, apparently not noticing that Edgar wasn't paying attention.

"...was the sweetest of them all! That's why I wanted to talk to you first." Jimmy knelt down and looked Edgar in the eye. "I just want to clear up a few things. You must know a lot about Johnny, but you don't kill like he does, do you?"

"No," Edgar choked out.

He could hear Scriabin bite his tongue.

"So Johnny doesn't have a partner or anything?"

Scriabin hissing in pain at biting back his words.

"No." Same weak voice.

"Great!" Jimmy smiled again. "I didn't think you'd be his partner. You're not...the right type for it. Although that coat is nice."

_Type, type, my God, these are people's lives, how can you-_

_Come on, calm down. You can get offended and all later when you're more prepared for it._

"Type for it..." Mumbling in distraction.

"Only two artists can really communicate. I mean, there's a lot of nothing that goes on between two _normal_ people in this empty world, all that shallow meaningless talk." Recited speech. Sinking suspicion that it was intended for Johnny to hear. "We're brothers of the mind, me and Johnny. Don't you think? We understand each other completely. I can't wait to meet him, I know it'll be amazing."

_Wow. And I thought you were naive._

"Understand...you think you understand him?" Vague anger. _You think after all this work and effort I put into doing that that it's as easy as just saying it was so?_

"Of course I understand him." Jimmy waved a hand again. "We're kindred spirits, dispensing justice in a black and dying world. He appreciates death, just like I do. I've suffered the same kind of injustice at the hands of the unappreciative masses. I can understand his pain. I mean, I've even got his boots! I know everything about him! I even stole some Noodle Boy comics."

_Some what?_

"He's..."

_Can you just imagine Johnny's reaction to this kid?_ Scriabin probably didn't intend the question to be more than a setup for some sarcastic comment, but it made Edgar stop dead.

_Oh my God, no..._

He had to say something. If Jimmy did find and talk to Johnny, there was no doubt in his mind that Jimmy wouldn't survive the encounter. He had to try and stop him.

"He's...Johnny's _insane_."

Jimmy gave him a long blank stare that gradually faded into disappointment. "Geniuses are always considered insane."

"No, you don't understand, he's-"

"Besides, if he was _crazy_," Jimmy emphasized the word in a way that made Edgar's eye twitch, "why would he be friends with you? To be honest, I think you're a little too normal for him."

_Too normal, my God, what-_

_He won't believe you. You should probably try a different approach._

"Just listen, just...this is...this is a bad time to try and talk to him..."

"Why?" Jimmy looked concerned for his hero.

"He's...just trust me." Edgar had no idea what to say. "This is not a good time-"

"Then when? You'd know, right? When should I meet him?"

He couldn't say never, as much as he wanted to.

_Looks like you get to decide how long Jimmy gets to live. Blood's getting on your hands no matter what you do._

_I've...I've got to warn Johnny, I've got to do something, if I can't get Jimmy to stop, I've got to...do something._

"I'm...not sure right now. Johnny's going through...a lot." Edgar cursed himself. That sounded so stupid. "He won't exactly be...open to new people."

"No no, that's just it." Jimmy smiled again. Just like Edgar was an old friend, and he barely suppressed a shudder. "I'm not a normal person, I'm not like those people out there. I _understand_ Johnny."

_Oh my God, you understand nothing about him._

Barely refrained from saying that out-loud. "Listen, it's...I'm his friend, all right? You must know that, considering you've been...following us."

Jimmy nodded reluctantly.

"I don't completely understand him-"

"Of course you don't." Edgar didn't muffle his slight sigh of distaste at Jimmy's interruption. Jimmy smiled at him again, completely unaware of how arrogant he sounded. "Only I could ever really understand Johnny. We're-"

"I know, brothers of the mind. I remember. But that's not the point."

_Flattery may get you somewhere with him..._ Scriabin again trying hard not to laugh.

Edgar's mental voice expressed all of the indignant rage he wouldn't put in verbal words. _I would never, ever flatter someone like this!_

_Good for you. At least you're learning something._

"I may not understand him, but I do know him." Edgar found he disliked how much control Jimmy was trying to usurp over this conversation, didn't like having to play into what Jimmy believed to be true. Edgar felt something strange, a desire to remind Jimmy that he wasn't exactly powerless and he wasn't as harmless as he may have thought. "He trusts me, and he talks to me."

Open jealousy on Jimmy's face, although he didn't say anything.

_I'm still taking notes,_ Scriabin sang mockingly. _You know I am. I can't do it here, not when you're like this, but later._

_I don't even care right now._

"And I'm telling you, now is not a good time. I can't say for sure when Johnny will be...receptive to meeting new people..."

Jimmy did not appreciate being reminded of Edgar's familiarity with Johnny. His tone had a definite hostile tinge. "Well then when. You didn't answer me before."

"Give me a chance to talk to him." Another flash of jealousy across Jimmy's face. "I can tell him who you are-"

"No no no!" Jimmy held out his hands. "No, we have to meet in person! That's the only way I can really connect with him! I have so much to say!"

_He just wants to die so badly. Why does this seem so familiar?_ Muffled laughter.

"Listen to me!" Edgar found himself getting irritated despite his best efforts. "Unless you want me to tell him not to see you at all..."

That was a childish thing to resort to and Edgar did regret bringing it up, but it was too late to fix it now. Jimmy sulked at the threat, but didn't say anything. Whatever friendship he assumed he and Edgar would create was now badly damaged, and it was hard to repair something that didn't exist to begin with.

_Oh my dear boy, do you really want Jimmy to die?_

_No- no! What gave you that idea?_

"Give me some time to talk to him. I'll try and figure out what's wrong. Maybe I can help him through this period, and-"

"What could you do for him?" Jimmy didn't hide his jealous tone now. "You can't understand him on the same level as I can. I mean, you don't even kill people. You've never experienced that rush. You've probably never even suffered like we have! You never had to go through endless days of teasing and mockery! You've never had people make fun of you or been so constantly misunderstood! You've never been surrounded by stupid people who can't appreciate true greatness, true genius when they see it! You never stood up and showed everyone what real power is like! You don't understand Johnny at all, you're too _normal_." Jimmy rolled his eyes at the word. "What makes you think you can help him through whatever this is better than I can?"

Edgar narrowed his eyes and fought to keep his voice level. "Maybe it's because I've _actually talked_ to him."

The two stared at each other.

"What could you talk to him about?" Jimmy glared.

"I just- ngh." Edgar ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath. He knew where this conversation would go if he didn't put a stop to it. "This will get us nowhere. I'm telling you, you shouldn't try to find Johnny now. Maybe in a week or so, but not now-"

"A week or so?" Jimmy raised an eyebrow. "Why should I listen to you?"

"Because I'm his friend. You know that, if you've been stalking us as much as you say. I can talk with him-"

"That's just because you got there first." Jimmy moved a hand towards the suitcase by his side. "Johnny hasn't found his real soul-mate yet because he hasn't met me."

Scriabin immediately stopped laughing when Jimmy fingered the silver lock on the case. There was a definite suspicious tone in his voice. _Hmm?_

"And when I meet him, when I finally meet him after all this time, then he won't need you anymore." Jimmy tried to put a dismissive tone in his voice. "I'll be everything Johnny will ever want. I can be everything, his companion in everything. We won't need you. Maybe...we'll even get rid of you..."

A smile, another hand twitch towards the case.

_Oh? Oh what's this?_ The sudden change in Scriabin's tone caused Edgar to jump a little. He was unprepared for the pure venom, the viciousness and menace. He'd never heard him talk this way before. _You think you can kill him? You think you can kill him while I'm here? Try it. Just try it you obnoxious little stupid naive gothy fantard wannabe, go ahead. Go ahead, try and hurt him, I'll rip your scrawny little pimply body into strips if you even get close to him. I'll tear you apart with my bare hands if you so much as think of hurting him. Try me. I dare you. I fucking dare you._

Snarling in the back of his mind, growling and a deep and fierce sense of protectiveness.

In a way, Edgar was touched, although that was quickly and easily muffled by how remarkably uncomfortable this situation was.

"Well, it doesn't matter anyway." Jimmy stood up and brushed himself off with exaggerated motions, then swept up his suitcase with one hand. "You don't know him like I do. You can't connect on the same level. I'm going to meet up with him."

_Fine, go ahead you idiot. Get yourself killed. Serves you right._ Scriabin still growling deep.

_Scriabin, stop it. Stop that, this is a human life we're talking about-_

_Oh stop with the fucking morality play, you want him to die too. Just admit it for once._

"Two weeks." It was the first number that came to mind.

Jimmy glared at him for a few seconds, then walked away without another word.

After he left, Edgar stared at the sky and sighed.

_Let's get out of here._ Scriabin sounded disgusted. _Go home and take a nap, then I want to talk to you._

_That doesn't sound particularly encouraging._

_I would talk to you now, but I can feel some wounds still running deep. You need time to heal._ Again, resentment. _But as soon as I can, I want to talk to you._

A few droplets spattered against his upturned face. Figures the rain wouldn't stop just yet.

Edgar got up slowly and left the church behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: The scapular that Edgar mentions is the Scapular of Our Lady.


	19. Gradient

He drove home with some difficulty. His broken glasses didn't help, the rain didn't help, and his mental exhaustion certainly didn't help. More often than not Scriabin had to sharply remind him where to turn, to look out for other cars, and that that was a stop light, not a stop sign.

What had happened, the implications of everything that had just happened to him, kept trying to surface. He tried very hard not to think about it. The knowledge that there was something he should be dealing with, something very important, lingered in the back of all his thoughts, but he didn't want to think about that now. Not just yet. He was too tired.

Scriabin worked with him on this issue. He didn't bring up anything that had just happened. He commented when Edgar endangered his safety, but mostly limited his contributions to soft thoughtful sounds. Edgar didn't care enough to inquire as to what Scriabin could be thinking about.

Just didn't want to think. Sleep was an easy way to take care of that.

When he got home, he shut the door behind him and at Scriabin's reminder, locked it. Despite the fact there was nothing more he wanted to do than go to sleep, he followed Scriabin's advice and locked all of his windows. Finally, he kicked off his shoes and fell onto his bed without changing his clothes and without getting beneath the covers.

It took a surprisingly short time for his thoughts to quiet enough to allow him to sleep, considering what had happened. Scriabin helped him in this regard, helped refocus and redirect thoughts that led in circles. His voice was sharp, almost annoyed, but what he was doing at the time was more important to Edgar than how he was doing it.

Dreams...

Without his normal logical barriers, his dreams quickly focused on what had just happened. The fear and confusion, the trauma of regression, and the certainty of his future.

Of Hell.

Harder to control now. Edgar was not a lucid dreamer.

Something vague and ominous looming over him, a flash of something black, and then it was gone. The same thing kept repeating and repeating...something approaching, black flash, gone. Some kind of bizarre camera or something...no, that didn't make sense...

Unwillingly trapped in a child's body--not unusual in his dreams--although this time Edgar could think rationally. Confusion, terror at this being his prison, an attempt to escape thwarted by something else, and the constant insignificant feeling that came with a body so small and powerless. Fear and failure, and the looming thing again.

He felt arms gently close around him. His adult body returned to him, the fear and the thing faded, and the dream thankfully shifted to less frightening territory. The arms remained through it all, an anchor, and he felt a body pressed against his back. Someone breathing against him and warmth through his clothes.

Soft whispering that the entire thing was still just a dream and as much as it may have shamed him, not a dream he was unfamiliar with either. He had had dreams that just consisted of genuine constant contact with another person. Nothing deeper than that. Just to be touched, to be held, to connect with someone on that level. Contact was so rare when he was young, hugs given such importance because they were so uncommon.

He didn't like thinking about those dreams and often relegated them to the same place as the dreams about his breakfast or about whatever book he had just read...all dreams were meaningless. They didn't mean anything. Just as becoming some random chipmunk, being shot three times, and standing on the edge of a rooftop being offered the world all meant nothing, so did the dreams of being held in a tight and loving embrace.

It didn't matter who held him in these dreams; it was being held at all. Being cared for. Previously he thought of God, which was the only real possibility that had no unpleasant implications. Affection from that source had no guilt, no bad feelings associated with it. Honesty. He could appreciate that affection without any regret. It was supposed to be there.

Now...he tried not to think of who held him. He didn't like the possibilities that arose if he thought too hard about it. Scriabin of course had mentioned at times how the arms that held him in one dream or another were thin, skeletal, with fingers that more resembled claws than anything else...

Thus why Edgar tried not to think about these kind of dreams, and why he decided that they didn't mean anything.

This didn't change the effect they had on him, that they had always had on him...that sense of peace, serenity, and calm. To be cared for, by one source or another. To be wanted...noticed...

With what had happened recently...he couldn't attribute this to God, as he had before. He wanted to, he so desperately wanted to, but he couldn't. Not anymore. At that thought, the person who held him hugged him tighter, whispered something he couldn't remember.

He slept this way, with the illusion of someone beside him, and he slept deeply without any more trouble.

* * *

The next three days did not follow the pattern Edgar had unwittingly set for himself. They blurred away into something hazy in his memory, days with no meaning and no purpose. Much, he found on further introspection, like the majority of his life before he met Johnny. Since that encounter his life had become increasingly memorable, if one could put it so lightly. Days filled with tense minutes and memories of conversations, of emotions, or at least of some kind of marker that made it clear this day was different, this day was a _day_ rather than a smudge of time that he logically knew had passed, but had no evidence for.

It had been a long time since he could forget days like that, since he could forget even hours or minutes.

The seventy-two hours showed him that there was a reason outside of Johnny that he found his days memorable, a reason he was not aware of at the time to which he had never given real consideration or thought.

For those three days, Scriabin did not argue with him.

He disliked using the word--finding it laden with more potential meaning than he felt the situation deserved--but the all-too-brief days without the constant bitter sarcasm, the mean-spirited sniping insults, the logical traps and metaphysical snares, could only be described as pleasant. It was the only word that seemed to sum it up so completely.  
Pleasant.

Not to say that Scriabin did not get in a few sarcastic jabs here and there, but Edgar thought it too much to expect all of it to stop. It was the feeling behind the words, what they were directed at, that changed the mood and tone of their relationship. Scriabin's digs about accidentally spilling his cereal, the jokes while he was reading, the comments on his wardrobe and workday, were made in a light and forgiving manner. There was no malice, no deeper hatred that motivated Scriabin's occasional antagonistic remarks.

Edgar wondered at times if this was the only way Scriabin knew how to interact with others, through a kind of teasing that perhaps spoke of some kind of affection. How school yard.

Edgar thought that the general peace meant he could be honest. He thought it meant that he could ask Scriabin questions that he had never found the appropriate time for before. Scriabin did answer one or two, but avoided the others uncomfortably. When Edgar pressed the matter, Scriabin lashed out at him quickly and with viciousness, reminded Edgar that mistaking kindness for closeness could be fatal. Edgar immediately retreated and apologized, boundaries made quite clear. A very long hour went by of awkward silence before Scriabin was willing to speak with him again, and by then it was like it never happened.

An uneasy cease-fire, but one that existed nonetheless. Certain topics became instinctually off-limits. There was no talk of what had happened in the church, of the notes Johnny had left, of Jimmy, of the future, of his feelings, or of dreams. Everything that Edgar feared would be brought up against him as soon as Scriabin found the chance now lay at rest.

He knew why Scriabin was doing this, why he let the animosity go for now. Healing, he had said. Edgar wasn't sure how to do that. He didn't know how to heal, where to begin. He just assumed, as he thought Scriabin did as well, that rest, mental as well as physical, would help that process along. Scriabin granted him both.

Edgar slept for periods of time that he previously thought impossible. Fourteen hours went by without him stirring at all. His dreams were hazy but not as hazy as he would have liked, although Scriabin made no comment. They were pleasant though, fulfilled their purpose and allowed him to sleep.

He caught up on everything that he had neglected over time. He restocked his fridge, picked up the pieces of paper and pens scattered on the floor, cleaned the bathroom and the kitchen. He explained his absence at work, arranged a time to make up for the hours he had missed, got gas for his car, and contacted his optometrist about getting a new pair of glasses after what felt like years without them. He was eager to put an end to the constant ache between his eyes that he was sure was the fault of the cracked glass.

Small errands that built unmonitored. Nothing that required his immediate, urgent attention, just minor distractions. Something to keep his hands busy, keep his mind away.

For once Edgar recalled having an actual, genuine conversation with Scriabin that did not revolve around some fault of Edgar's. A conversation that wandered without focus, changed with what he was doing, without depth yet still indicating a kind of familiarity Edgar wasn't aware they could have.

He heard Scriabin really laugh for the first time, and realized he couldn't remember the last time he had laughed himself.

Three days. The phone was silent.

It was pleasant to keep it shallow. Keep away depth that they knew was painful, that they were both well aware of. Chatting about things that didn't mean anything: the weather, this author, or the current movie that came out. A constant conversation in his head that had no meaning and wouldn't be remembered. Like the forgettable days he thought he could never have again, conversations with Scriabin faded into the back of his mind.

Building a friendship on lies, on false shallowness, on the desperate fantasy of normalcy. Despite the fact that the conversation was internal, that the person--if he could be considered one--that Edgar was talking to existed only within his mind, despite all this there was the wish that this normal life he was leading, all the minor errands and lost time and conversations that were completely and totally unremarkable, was real. That things really were this simple. That the voice in his head really was just amused by the word "elocution" and had a craving for tacos. That there was no homicidal maniac, no otherworldly system, no emotional turmoil, no eternal damnation. No loss, no pain, no hurt, no damage.

Normality. Playing at a normal life. What Scriabin had once condemned as meaningless, pointless, he now worked to keep alive. Worked as hard for the same illusion, although Edgar couldn't say for sure it was for the same reason. He would've liked to, but he didn't know that for sure.

And at some points during those three days, Edgar thought that this resembled his old life, before he met Johnny, more than he thought it should, and he wasn't sure what it meant that the false hollowness had suddenly become so appealing.

They both knew it was a lie.

They both knew it had to end.

Edgar was sitting on his couch reading. Scriabin was humming some tune in the back of his mind that sounded familiar, but Edgar couldn't place it. He wondered if this was going to be one of those things that was going to haunt him, if at some point in the future that was entirely inappropriate he would suddenly perk up and shout the name of the song as if figuring it out was some kind of accomplishment. It could happen, or the tune could just dwindle off into his memory and be forgotten, as so many other melodies had done. He wondered briefly if Scriabin just made up each little song, a thought which always made Scriabin snicker softly but never answer the question.

Interactions without meaning, skating on the surface of a pond that had been unbroken for days Edgar loved not being able to remember.

Scriabin's humming slowly faded, and there was relative silence. A moment of self-awareness and Edgar realized with mild amazement that he thought mental silence was unusual.

_Edgar..._

_Mmhmm?_

_These past three days have been pleasant. I know that's the word you've chosen for this, and I can't find any direct fault with it at the moment. It's as good a word as any._

He turned the page. _Sure._

_I would like to pretend that this could continue, that I could accomplish what you asked of me when..._

Edgar's eyes widened at the realization that this was it, this was when it would end, and he sighed. He closed the book carefully and set it to one side. He knew this would happen, he knew it, and yet somehow he didn't feel prepared.

Scriabin must have felt similarly, as he sounded more morose than anything else. _I wish I could erase what you've done. I wish this could be how things are, that everything you've done could be so easily glossed over. But I can't. I'm not willing to live a lie. I know the short-term benefits of the occasional flight of fancy, the escape that all people require at some point or another. I understand that, so don't try to bring it up. But, Edgar, I know that this cannot continue. I know when it has to stop. I know when the lies have to stop._

Edgar wanted to say something in response, but he couldn't think of anything. It was only three days, and to be at such a loss for words...was this loss deliberate, an attempt to evade the argument he knew would come? He really didn't want to start fighting again, not just yet...

Not his decision. _It is time for reality, Edgar, for what we've put off. Two weeks you told him before, and that gives us a limited window of time, if there is one at all._

_It was the first number to come to mind..._

_Ha..._ Quiet and humorless._ I remember saying I would take notes, but after all this time, it's a little more indistinct than I would like. I'm not sure where to begin with all that has happened recently. All of it speaks of a future less than pleasant. I'd rather not deal with another mental breakdown, not after how calm it's been, so talking about this may take a bit more finesse than I planned._

_Or you're used to._ They had traded minor insults for the last few days without the threat of serious consequences. Scriabin sighed.

_Even the false relationship that's been built...even that must come down eventually, I suppose. It's not even directly related, but everything gets connected in the end...regardless Edgar, what do you want to think about first? Why not, tell me what you feel most able to handle at the moment._

Edgar thought for a moment, considered. The past few days had been a blur...memories that he had avoided had tried with some success to join the lost time. Defense mechanism after defense mechanism, and...

_There are so many things I don't want to think about..._

A pause, and Scriabin sounded thoughtful. _God, you bare yourself to me without thought now. How desperate are you for affection? For the false friendship we had built? How badly do you want someone to be weak to without being stabbed in the chest for it?_

Edgar sighed. Not just yet, he really didn't want to...

_Maybe things did change with us..._

_You wish they had changed._ Struggling to find a rhythm that he once found natural. _You wish that things could change that easily between us, that we really are just our most positive attributes, one-dimensional things that interact so easily. No past to complicate things, no future, just what we wish the other was and the other working to fulfill that desire. No..._ He should be angrier. Edgar expected him to sound angrier. _It doesn't work that way. Not that easily. I'm going to have to break through the ice--as usual, take the initiative--since I know you're no help in this department._

Edgar leaned back and rested an arm across his forehead. _Well, go ahead. You might as well._

But before Scriabin could continue, Edgar thought of something else. _What would it be like, Scriabin? I mean...if it was really like this? If we really didn't hate each other as much as we do?_

Another long pause.

_I wouldn't be here, Edgar, obviously. _He sounded somewhat hesitant._ Such a simple leap of logic I thought wouldn't be beyond you. Hate, perhaps, is not the key factor here. It's what I do that you think requires your hate. Arguing with you is what was missing these past three days, Edgar, not our mutual dislike. Fighting with you reinforces, justifies what you feel for me and without that, it fades. You forget that it's there without that constant reminder._

He wasn't sure if he believed that. _So why not just-_

_But fighting with you is what I do. You know that. It's how things work, isn't it? I challenge you, I raise questions-_

_That I don't like to answer, I know._ Edgar waved a hand.

_But that's what it is, Edgar. That's how it works. I fight you, I question you, and primarily I don't listen to you. Otherwise you wouldn't need me. Otherwise...I wouldn't have come this far._

_But what if...I mean, you used that to develop, in a way. I mean, arguing provided you with a focus while you...grew, isn't that right? Why is it that we have to keep..._

_Edgar, stop._ Scriabin sighed. _I told you, we can't live like this. This is not who we are. Fantasies will only end up getting us both killed. With our current situation, we can't get caught up in minor problems, in what we wish was true. We need solutions, we need plans of action._

_I don't see why we can't..._

_You know why we can't? I didn't want to do this this quickly, but already you're reminding me. _He spoke fast and with a hatred Edgar wished was false._ I can pretend to like you, I can hold my tongue in check for three days, but that doesn't change anything. It doesn't change the fact that I hate what you do, how you act, your decisions that put me in this position-_

_My decisions?_ Edgar felt his hand clench, and this did feel familiar now that he thought about it. _How can you criticize me-_

_Fine, let's hit the most pressing issue first. Let's destroy this illusion before it becomes any more appealing or valid. We're in a bad position now, Edgar, we're in a very bad position and it's a result of your actions. We're a waste-lock now, remember?_ A twinge and he felt goose bumps rise. _You remember, I know you do. I'm sure that hasn't slipped your memory completely over these past few days. I'm still not sure how much of it is real, thanks to you, but Satan told you what will happen. He told you that essentially, we're going to become the focus for every aggressive feeling in our vicinity._

Hearing the words but still the deeper meaning eluded him. The ramifications, the long-term consequences he had avoided for so long. _How do you know that for sure?_

_Godda-! Ggh, I forgot you'd do this. Right. _Scriabin's voice changed abruptly, cloying and hatefully sarcastic. _You still don't think that was all my fault, do you?_

Edgar felt his eyes narrow and a quick defensive reaction, an urge to claim that he didn't know what he was doing before he realized that wouldn't help his case. Instead he struggled to match Scriabin's tone. _No, I don't, but that doesn't mean that what happened actually-_

An angry frustrated sound. _Okay fine, fine. Go ahead and do that. Go ahead. But indulge me, Edgar, please._ Deeply sarcastic. _Just play along with me for now, let's get whimsically hypothetical. Let's just say that, horror of goddamn horrors, that maybe this whole thing is more than just some "I-got-punched-in-the-nose" fantasy and maybe, just maybe, the future for you isn't mindless chatter about sitcoms and cereal. Maybe the future for you isn't what you want it to be or what you wish it was, and maybe in fact the future is entirely out of your control._

_Funny, you seemed quite intent on saying that I was in control of it at the church._ His eyes still narrowed and he felt the beginnings of familiar shivers. He tried to force his body to stay still.

A pause and Edgar felt rather proud of himself. Maybe his arguing skills weren't the only ones that had suffered a little from disuse. Scriabin struggled with his response.

_Continuing with our "this isn't real" take on the current scenario--I know it's your favorite kind--I merely presented to you the possibility of your real power. I told you that you could be free, that you did have options, and that now, you could take control of your life. Not that you had, but that you could. Frankly, I don't think you will._

_That doesn't surprise me. I hardly expect your support._

_Ha, see how easy this is? See how easy it is for us to go back to how it was? You know why that is? Because this is how things are. This is how things work. This is how it works for us. We can pretend but what good is that? Pretending doesn't change anything. Pretending things are better doesn't actually make it so. You've always had trouble with that concept._

Edgar rolled his eyes._ Here it comes..._

Scriabin paused and he heard him hiss softly. Obviously didn't expect Edgar to anticipate what he was going to say. _No, there are more important things to think about now than him. For example, the fact that your soul, as I mentioned, may belong to something other than God now..._

_If this entire waste-lock thing is true, anyway._ It was simple to set himself in the position of general yet unquestionable opposition. _I don't know that for sure._

_How much evidence will you need?_ Spiteful. _How far along will you have to go? If what the Devil said is true, the end result of this entire thing is eventual collapse. What exactly that entails I can't say for sure, although I can say with some certainty that it is not good. Personally, I imagine insanity at the end of this entire thing for you. How crazy will you have to get before you believe that this is happening?_

_I'm going to need some evidence. I'm not going to jump to conclusions because of something that may or may not have been a dream._ He crossed his arms.

_It wasn't a dream because Nny collaborated on the details with you. Unless you're planning on blaming this on some kind of collective unconscious Jungian ideal, and you have just as much evidence for that possibility as you have to the lock theory._

There was that thread that Scriabin had mentioned before, that one persistent chink in the mental armor that he kept forgetting about, and Edgar couldn't find a way around it. He cursed softly, wished he could just end the conversation-

_I can feel your defense mechanisms beginning to set in... _As if to add weight to his words, Scriabin sounded distracted. _I suppose I got carried away. God, I forgot how angry you can make me sometimes. However, I'm going to take the high road here and keep in mind how this needs to go. It's no good for either of us if you have another breakdown-_

_No good for you, you mean._ Edgar kept his arms crossed, still irritated at having been caught in the same trap. He let his voice turn sarcastic. _You understand when I say that I somehow doubt your concern._

A pause. _Good to hear. Blind faith, trusting what you're told without question is never a good idea. Do you know why?_ Sickeningly sweet tone. _Because when your false idol is exposed, you suffer. You're intimately familiar with that, aren't you, my boy?_

Edgar winced at the thought, and he heard Scriabin hiss.

_God- you always do this to me. I didn't...no, I'm not apologizing to you. I may have to get your life in order, but I'll be damned if I'll apologize for you being an idiot._

Edgar thought, noticed that his leg was twitching. He wasn't sure when he started doing that. _You're in a really bad mood today, aren't you?_

He didn't think that such an offhand comment would give Scriabin so much trouble, but he didn't respond for almost a minute.

_I'm losing focus. Control. I'm usually much more composed than this. Eloquent. That's a better word for it. I can do much better than this. As appealing as it may be to exploit your weak spots now, that wouldn't be productive. I let you heal so we could discuss this, not so I could pull out the stitches._

Edgar hesitated. He didn't want to think about this, but he couldn't do that anymore. He had to stop hiding--as he was sure Scriabin wouldn't let him rest otherwise--and just as he suspected, there were connections involved in this entire thing that he really did not want to contemplate. But Scriabin started it, Scriabin opened the lines and wanted to talk about it, and that was what Edgar would do. _Scriabin, you said...well, the Devil...said...that we're going to be the focal point for every negative feeling in our vicinity...that every hateful feeling is going to be channeled into and through me...do you think...if this whole thing has started already, do you think that's why you're so angry now?_

Another pause, then a thoughtful hum in the back of his mind.

_No, no I don't. I've been controlling my temper for some time without too much effort. I think this is more of a situation where the anger just accumulates and then comes out in one big burst..._

_God, what will happen to me?_ Edgar rested his head in his hands. _If this whole thing is really true, how will this affect me? Will I change? I mean, I would have to change...I can't imagine this whole process being...unnoticeable. It can't be, he said that the locks eventually collapse...this will have to affect me in one way or another, if this is all true. What will it do to me? What will this be like? Will I become those feelings? If...Nny said that he was a lock and that he felt that his actions were beyond his control...it could be that the amount of...hate going through him...fed his psychosis. Will that happen to me? God, losing control like that...will I...collapse..._

_Couldn't have been more specific, eh?_ Scriabin directed his comment to someone who was not listening. _Collapse indeed. There's a number of meanings that could potentially have. Well, I suppose it's in his character not to tell the whole story._

_And you, what will happen to you through all of this?_

Scriabin didn't say anything.

_Unless..._

_You're...asking me?_ A moment where he sounded fairly amazed, then his tone quickly hardened. _Why do you care? Since when have you ever cared about how anything affects me?_

_I mean...look at what you said before. That was...you've...gotten angrier recently._

_No I haven't. You've gotten weaker._

_You've gotten angrier...you swear more often...you've lost your patience with me much faster than before...and you've said things to me that really...that you wouldn't have said before. At least, I don't think you would have._

Scriabin snorted. _Amusingly enough, I think you're giving me too much credit. I didn't think I'd ever say that. Don't tell me that that false friendship we created has completely wiped your memory. My boy, my dear child, I said things to you in our distant past that cut you far deeper than anything I've said recently. Some of my earliest...some of the earliest things I said to you were far more venomous, far less forgiving than what I say now. What has changed here is not what I say to you, not my attitude. I have not become crueler, my boy, or more short-tempered. I have merely become more powerful, and you have subsequently become weaker. That is the reason my words have more of an effect on you._

_I don't think so... _Edgar shook his head._ There's more to this than that, I'm sure of it. You're the one who's so insistent that this entire process is, in fact, occurring at all. If that's the case, there must be some kind of...impact it has on me. On us both._

_I don't-_

_I remember something, I remember you talking about seeing something. When I was half-awake that one time, I remember you swearing and I remember how you felt...this kind of anxiety. That's not nothing, that's not...normal. We saw something, both of us, and you saw it too. It wasn't real but you saw it too._

_I didn't see-_

_You're always claiming we're so connected._ Irritation in his voice that he didn't intend. _You're always going on about how we're the same person, or if not that, that we at least came from the same source. We're joined, you feel what I feel, all of that. Why is it now, when something bad is happening, you're suddenly...exempt? Why is it that whenever something bad happens to me, we suddenly couldn't be more separate?_

Another pause.

_I didn't say that I was exempt, that wasn't-_

_What are you?_ Edgar found this topic to be less potentially disturbing than the idea of being a waste-lock and the ramifications thereof, and thus readily changed his focus. _What are you, anyway? What's your answer this time? Are you still me? Are you different from me? What do you want from me? What do you want?_

Silence.

Edgar was about to get up and walk into his room, guessing that maybe being closer to the action figure might give him some more hints as to how Scriabin was reacting, when Scriabin spoke again.

_Edgar, tell me. You aren't honestly stupid enough to think that I would ever tell you anything about myself, are you? Do you think, do you somehow think that after all this time the grand secret of my existence, my deep inner goals and the mysterious workings of my mind, can so easily be accessed with just a simple question? Not only that, but the same question you've been asking for as long as I can remember for the fifty-thousandth time? Grow up, Edgar. Merely hardening your voice and sounding authoritative won't get you anywhere with me. It never has. You have no power over me anymore._

_Are you saying I used to?_

Scriabin took a moment to consider this. _Which way to toy with you, which way to take this...fine. I'll play along. Yes, I do think you had power over me once, long ago. But guess what. I warned you. I warned you not to give me a name. And even though I didn't warn you before that to stop encouraging me, you gladly fed me by constantly validating my contributions, by interacting with me. You kept me alive because instead of ignoring me, you gave me your hatred, your resentment, all the negative aspects of yourself, and that was more of a validation than you knew. You created me. It's your fault I'm here, and all of my relative power has its source within you._

_Well, why can't I take it away?_

_Edgar, there's this concept that both you and your dear psychopath have problems with. It's called 'change.' Perhaps someday, long ago in the foggy mists of the past, you could have stopped me. Maybe there was a time when you could have taken more responsibility for your conflicting emotions, for the two sides you couldn't reconcile, and maybe you could have stopped me. But I'm afraid, my boy, that I have changed. And so have you, if you'd bother to take the time to consider it. I have changed, Edgar. I have taken the power you offered me. I have changed and become something that you have no power over now. You can't control me. I don't have to tell you anything. You can't make me tell you anything._

_That's funny...I seem to recall that you were quite afraid when I rebuilt my memories not so long ago. _Edgar smirked for a moment._ I think that'd indicate that I still have some power over you. You're a liar._

Scriabin sighed in irritation._ Of course I am, Edgar. You act as if this is new information. In light of this, why do you ask me these questions? Do you expect a truthful answer from me? Do you expect an answer at all?_

A pause, and Edgar shook his head. _No, I guess I don't._

_Good. Now, let's get off this boring topic and focus on what's important. You do have a tendency to focus on such minor details. What I am doesn't matter anymore, as there's nothing you can do about it now._

_You know what?_

_Edgar, I'm-_

_No, before we move on, I want to say something. You don't know what you are, do you? I bet you don't. I bet you don't even know._

_Of course I know what I am._ Scriabin sounded deeply offended. _What kind of idiot do you take me for? How could I develop this far, and this well I might add, if I didn't know what I was doing?_

His defensive reaction was encouraging. _You don't have to know what you're doing to accomplish something. I bet, I bet you don't know half of what you think you do about yourself. You're just as confused as I am, you just hide it better. Where you came from, what you're here for, all of it. You don't know. You really don't know, do you?_ Incoherent frustrated sounds, and Edgar smiled. _No wonder you won't answer my question._

_I have no idea where you came up with such an incredibly stupid interpretation of what I just told you. _A moment to get his voice under control._ That's not true, but that's also not important right now_. _Our 'relationship' is a minor speed bump here. It's so trivial compared to everything else that's happening that it's insulting that we're even talking about it. Can the implications of what happened, the sheer immensity of the fate in store for us, be that lost on you? How can you possibly try to focus on me with so many more serious problems at your doorstep?_

Edgar could recognize what Scriabin was doing, but on the other hand, he did have a point. Still...a moment to work his words, find a way to make them sharp and biting. _Of course you're upset because we're not focusing on the right problem. Not because you don't want to talk about it or anything._

He heard a low growl in the back of his mind.

_God, I hate you._

And Edgar felt satisfied.

_You were saying?_

Scriabin sounded as if he was trying to make a decision, then made a dismissive sound and continued. _What we need to focus on now is how we're going to get out of this. I don't know about you, but I don't feel particularly inclined to become a glorified hate-funnel, as your dear Nny put it. The collapse mentioned also does not sound appealing. We need a plan._

_Well then, what do you have in mind?_

Silence.

This time, Edgar did get up and walk into his room. The toy stood where it always was, one arm pointing out across his bed.

"You don't actually have a plan, do you?"

"Of course I do." It was an instinctual quick response and it was easy to tell. Edgar sat down on his bed and stared at the motionless action figure. It was strangely comforting to hear his voice physically. At the thought, Edgar quickly reevaluated his feelings. Not comforting. Irritating. "I'm just trying to put it into words."

"You're really off your game today." Edgar leaned back and folded his hands behind his head. "I could see right through that. You usually make it more difficult."

"I've noticed you're also quite a bit more snappish. You know, you ask me if this lock business has made me irritable, but I'm afraid you haven't considered that it cuts both ways. You haven't been this sarcastic with me for some time. In a way, it's encouraging I suppose, but not enough. It's a bad sign."

"So, what's your plan?"

"Hmm..."

Edgar stared up at the ceiling and waited.

"If you hadn't jumbled everything up, I could get a clearer look at things..." Scriabin mumbled. "As it is, the Devil mentions that when the lock is destroyed, the cell empties itself...and that Johnny's suicide destroyed his status as a lock. Obviously, suicide isn't an option."

"Why, exactly?" Edgar was surprised that the words came from him, then looked a bit deeper. "And since when is that your decision?"

Scriabin didn't say anything for a few seconds, and he sounded astonished when he spoke again. "How...I just can't understand. How on earth can you be so callous? For god's sake Edgar, I'm still here with you. I know that it's just _so much_ to ask, but could you please take my feelings, or at least my existence if nothing else, into consideration?"

His sarcasm masked something else, and Edgar for a moment wanted to go for it, wanted to dig through the masking lie and expose it, but then he remembered.

Promises in the church, phantasmal contact, and that protective, possessive snarl.

It was so easy to polarize their relationship, to swing from one extreme to the other while forgetting all the shades of gray in-between. It would have been easy to pretend that the two of them were mortal and bitter enemies, just as it would have been to pretend to be friends. But in the end, it wasn't that simple. It would never be that simple.

And in a way, he hated the fact that it couldn't be that simple.

Edgar was silent.

"You don't make this easy," Scriabin said. "We're in a horrible situation now. So many opportunities passed by, and so many bad decisions. Tangled up in mistake after mistake. However, I have confidence that we can make it through this, as we have before. After all, the past isn't always indicative of the future. We can survive. We have and we will. And even if it comes down to it and you give up, as you're so wont to do, I'll survive. I'll make sure of that."

"How?"

A quick question, and again Scriabin was unprepared. They both weren't used to this. That was his only guess as to why Scriabin was getting caught off-guard so often.

"We'll...figure something out. This lock mess...it's not good. There's no easily available out for us. I'm not sure if the process can be reversed. The only thing we really have to work with is the mention that when the lock is destroyed, the cell is emptied. There may be some other way to destroy your status as a lock...although I somehow doubt that any such solution would be pleasant. Johnny for example committed suicide...there must be another way, something less permanently damaging. While Johnny did somehow get his second chance at life, I doubt you'll be so fortunate. The Devil said that he was a mistake, which I suppose led to his resurrection. You, however, are the ideal candidate for this entire mess, and therefore when you die, I think that will be just how things should go. I won't accept that," Edgar opened his mouth to say something, but Scriabin cut him off, "and neither will you, if I have anything to say about it. We're fighting this and that's all there is to it. This time there's no passive acceptance of death, you understand?"

Edgar rolled his eyes, but didn't feel like pressing the issue. Let him believe what he wanted. In the end, it was still Edgar's body and it was still his decision. It wasn't as though Edgar really wanted to commit suicide; he just resented his ability to make that decision being questioned, usurped by Scriabin as if it was his birthright. He wouldn't choose death, but he at least wanted a choice.

"I don't know enough to really put forth a good hypothesis as to how to void the lock position. Insanity won't do it, as Johnny has illustrated, so the collapse of your mind won't empty the cell. It seems tied to the physical aspects of the assigned lock...and that is a tricky thing to overcome. Johnny implied that he had done some amount of damage to himself experimenting with his invulnerability or what have you, so a great deal of pain and suffering won't clear the lock status either. Death can't be the only solution...there has to be some other way. This entire process...hmm, I wonder if the mental collapse of the lock is a part of the process, a sign of a full cell, or merely an unintentional side-effect. I'm leaning towards the unintentional, considering that Johnny's psychosis raged on for some time regardless of how full the cell was...otherwise his status would have been voided when he went insane and...well, regardless, I have confidence that we can survive the process for some time. Not forever, surely, but for some period of time. Perhaps enough to do research, study what's happening and learn how to cope. Adaptation will be key, and thankfully that is one of your specialties. Eventual collapse, whatever that entails, but maybe not with enough practice. I can't say that for sure. Of all the problems facing you, this one worries me the most. It has no easy resolution."

Edgar couldn't think of a solution either, so he stayed silent.

"So, as much as I dislike doing this, I'm afraid we may have to let that rest. It's the most important issue but there's no ready solution, and ruminating about it endlessly will be no help to anyone." Scriabin sighed, then mumbled to himself, "I hate not having the answer, especially for something this important."

Edgar should have leapt on that chance, should have attacked as he was sure Scriabin would have done had their positions been reversed, but he just couldn't find the motivation. He could empathize, as much as he hated to think so, with that kind of frustration. There were a few things that he had never had a satisfactory resolution to and that had always irritated him. The fact that Scriabin was not frustrated with him but rather, with their situation, probably also had a hand in it.

"I think you're right. I don't like leaving that either, but...I don't know what to do." Edgar found himself shuddering as he heard the words repeat in his mind in a much higher voice. He quickly pushed the memories away. The last thing he wanted to think about now was how he had completely failed under pressure at the church. That was embarrassing as well as unhelpful.

"Hmm." Scriabin seemed fairly surprised that Edgar hadn't attacked him. Shades of gray coming back for them both, and his tone softened somewhat. "There's another issue though, one that I think might be a bit more easy to resolve in that it actually has a feasible solution. I can still feel the residue of doubt in you, over what exactly this lock business could mean for you spiritually."

Edgar pressed his arm over his eyes. "That's it...that's why I was avoiding this."

"Yes, I think you're right." A minor truce and one that was exceedingly temporary. Edgar wondered which one of them would be the first to break the peace. "You're not afraid of the eventual collapse that is the end result of this system, and neither am I. I have confidence that we'll be able to handle it, perhaps to overcome it when the time comes. If not that, at least the ability to handle what will happen. But that's far from saying there's no fear at all on your part. It's just there's a different factor here that you find more important..."

"You understand why." Edgar could keep up his end of their civil discussion at least. In that way, at least breaking their tenuous connection wouldn't be his fault. "I'd rather not die, but if I have to, I'm not..."

A deep sigh.

"I wasn't afraid..."

"As I said before..." Scriabin's words came haltingly. "You're outside their jurisdiction now...you belong to no one but yourself. You are alone."

A sharp pang in his chest, real physical pain that caught him by surprise. At the twinge Scriabin stopped speaking. A few tense moments went by until the pain faded.

A physical manifestation of pain that should have been internal? Perhaps this hurt more than he was willing to accept at the time. Possible. Edgar felt like he was drifting slightly in a way that was hard to define and knew that was a bad thing, but he wasn't sure how to fix it.

Scriabin resumed speaking, his voice soft again. "I felt that just as you did, and I know that the consequences for bringing this up again could be quite dire. But the fact of the matter is...at this point, your moral code has no relevance." He sounded uncomfortable. "How to phrase this...a lot of your emotional turmoil over this period has been a result of your conscience...the rules you feel you must follow and the punishment you inflict on yourself for breaking these rules. Without delving too deep into the heart of this just yet, as much as I would like to, this moral code no longer has any authority. Punishing yourself as you have is pointless. I tried to make this clearer to you before when we spent our time together in your mind, but you weren't very receptive then. I can only assume you're more so now."

Still drifting and he felt this vague sense of panic, that he should be stopping this but he wasn't sure how. He had a feeling that motion would only make it worse. He resolved to stay where he was, relatively. Scriabin's voice at least provided an anchor. That way he knew he wasn't really moving.

"You don't sound like yourself."

Scriabin made another uncomfortable noise. "Like I said...this requires a bit more finesse than I'm accustomed to. I wasn't lying before when I said you were more resilient in the past...then again, I've become more powerful. The situations facing us have changed as well, in their scope and influence, and I suppose I can't always rant or argue with you the same way. This situation does call for a...light touch. I consider myself adaptable...intelligent surely, and definitely enough so to adapt to what the situation requires." Edgar perhaps should have been annoyed at the egotism in Scriabin's last statement, but he could hear his voice shaking. "Attacking you as I usually do in this situation would not work. This requires logic, acceptance of the facts. Presenting them in the way that I...usually do often worked for minor problems, but this is something a bit bigger than I'm used to dealing with...you with, I suppose it would go. And lately, I've found how you react to me rather distressing. Things are changing."

"I got the message after three sentences." Edgar wanted the bed to stop moving. "You don't need to elaborate any further. I understand."

_Keep talking and talking and talking. You're trying to justify it to yourself. You're afraid of changing too._

Scriabin made a growling noise. Forgot that that line between the two of them was still open. In his defense, Edgar was distracted, but that still didn't make it an intelligent thing to do.

"I think it would benefit both of us..." Scriabin said very slowly, "if you stopped derailing the conversation."

Edgar rolled his eyes again, but knew that pursuing the matter would be useless now. To echo his words earlier, Scriabin was not being very receptive.

Also, Edgar still felt as if he was drifting somehow. If Scriabin started sulking and refused to talk, he was worried about what would happen if he didn't have his voice to focus on.

"As I was saying." Scriabin coughed. "You don't understand how much pain you're causing yourself. I have often pointed out to you that you've placed yourself in a horrifically abusive relationship, but that's not the only cause for your anxiety. It's easy for you to erase your emotions, to drive them away with distracting activities and the like. I still experience them though, I do feel them and as a result, I get a clearer picture of what's going on inside of you than you do at times."

"Don't start with the gay thing again." Edgar now felt that even if he wanted to move, he couldn't find the energy or ability. He had to keep Scriabin talking. At this point, if he did lose that focus, there was a chance that he might not be able to stop himself from floating somewhere else entirely.

"Didn't we already go over this?" Scriabin sighed. "It's not that, although something like that is a factor in this. The main problem is this constant internal monologue you have, besides me, that punishes you for what you do. You can never trust your own decisions. You're always second-guessing yourself, what you want and how you want it and why. I blame most of this debilitating caution on your maniac's influence, but a good deal of it is the fault of that moral code you cling to so tenaciously. You assumed that everything you ever wanted awaited you in the afterlife, so it was easier to put off desires until that time came around. That eternal reward essentially canceled any on this mortal plane. That's a bit beside the point though...the fact is that you play the martyr, Edgar, and you do it often and well. Now, there is no point. It's easy to look at this situation as being inherently negative, but I find there are positive aspects to it as well, if you'd care to look. You are free. You have the ability to make your own decisions without that all-encompassing guilt." His voice took a very sudden bitter turn. "Whether or not that involves screwing Johnny is not my decision."

"I'm not- Jesus. Can you never let that go? I've told you a thousand times, it's not like that. There's nothing between us-"

"No no no, that's not the point. The point is that if there were..." Scriabin paused, considered his words. "I'm not saying that there is, exactly, although I do find most evidence works against you in this case, but if these feelings were present, there'd be no reason to deny them, destroy them or hide them, hurt yourself for having them. You've self-regulated your behavior for so long, living by the code you think is right. Is that what you really believe, or is that just what you've been taught? You have a chance now, Edgar, to recreate your life as you see fit. Everyone else's belief systems, their rights and wrongs, do not apply to you. Do you see what I'm getting at? I don't care if you're straight or gay or bisexual or asexual or even Nnysexual for god's sake. What matters to me is that you _stop torturing yourself about it_. Do you realize what it's like for me? To have to hear you constantly do this, feel you in this constant turmoil, and then have to deal with you pretending it's not there? It's like someone runs up to me and kicks me in the shin every day then pretends it never happened."

"Scriabin..."

Absorbed in his own speech. "I'm trying to present this in as...non-hostile a way as possible. Believe me, if I had my way I wouldn't take such a..." Scriabin tried to find a word, then eventually gave up. "I'd do this with my own customary flair, but this situation simply...it wouldn't work right now. And the solution is more important than the process, in the end. If you understand what I'm telling you, it won't matter how I convinced you."

"Scriabin..."

"I dislike presenting things this way though, it strikes me as being remarkably spineless. The logic behind it is sound enough though, I suppose. I guess this is how you feel-"

"Scriabin..."

"What?"

"I have a problem." That came out a great deal more frightened than he intended.

"What?" Scriabin's tone changed immediately. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know." Edgar tried to remain calm. It always paid to remain calm in strange situations. "I just feel...kind of strange. Kind of like I'm floating."

"Why didn't you tell me?!" The anger in his voice was comfortingly familiar, and Edgar paused for a moment at how bizarre that was. "I can't listen to you as well when I'm talking through the toy, Christ, and you let me go on and on and didn't mention it-"

"What do you mean you can't listen as well? You heard me before." He had to keep speaking. It made him feel heavier.

_Of course I can hear you if you're directly talking to me, or thinking in such clear-cut sentences._ Mental voice again, and Scriabin sounded distracted. _Where is it- but with something as minor as this, what the...mmph, something as minor as this, a kind of spatial distortion or...no, that's not it. I'm not quite sure what this is...well, either way, something this small can easily be missed when my attention...wavers...hmm, when did this start?_

_I can't remember._ Edgar felt more disoriented now that his physical voice was gone. _My memory used to be so good...what happened-_

_This is not the time for that._ Edgar stopped talking obediently. _This is strange...this kind of reaction and I wasn't even close to attacking you. You don't mean to tell me that I can't talk to you about this matter at all? I refuse to accept that, this is far too important-_

"I don't think that's the issue." Edgar had to speak, he was feeling further away each moment. "I understood what you said. I was thinking about it. I just don't know why I feel like this...I just feel kind of strange. I don't think it was related to what you were talking about. Maybe it was."

_Well, thanks for that. I suppose that's better than nothing._ Sarcasm, but that's what he expected. A moment passed. _You should have said something. Why didn't you say something?_

"I thought it'd go away. Maybe I was dizzy or something, something like that. I thought I could handle it."

Another few seconds of silence, and Scriabin made a long sound that could most closely be likened to a whine, although it wasn't so desperate._ I don't like this at all. Also, you didn't have to phrase it like that. It doesn't make you clever to turn things back on me, particularly when you need my help. It makes you stupid._

He didn't intend to phrase it that way, but it was too late for that. Part of him wanted to say that he didn't need his help, but another part reminded him that pride wasn't his particular moral failing. That one belonged to Scriabin. "Can you fix it?"

He wanted to think harder about what had just crossed his mind, but Scriabin cut him off. _Can I fix it-, Edgar, these things aren't that simple. I can't flip magic switches in here and make you happy or sad._ A pause. _Well...hmm. Either way, I'll just have to find what's causing this dizziness...some thought you aren't consciously recognizing, no doubt. Also, you may be hungry. Go get something to eat and try not to think too hard._

"I don't want to move."

_Mmm, right. I forgot._

"What's it like for you? What do you see? I mean...considering...if we're going from the pure biological definition of the mind...technically all you could be would be chemicals passing from neuron to neuron. Somehow I don't think it could be that boring for you."

_Sentience is a funny thing, isn't it?_ Scriabin really sounded like he wasn't paying attention.

"Do you have your own place in there? How do my thoughts materialize anyway? Is it visual, or-"

_Look, shut up. I'm trying to do something. You're being very distracting. Also, it's tremendously difficult to explain._ Scriabin grunted. _Imagine for example...how to get this across, hmm...imagine if you will, being a two-dimensional shape and having, say, a three-dimensional shape attempt to explain the third dimension to you._

"You read that in a book."

_Correction: you read that in a book. Therefore, you know the rest. Either way, analogy is apt, et cetera et cetera. Now shut up, I'm trying to find out what's wrong._

Before he had been floating in a generally horizontal direction, as best as he could guess. Now he suddenly got the impression that he was spinning in place and his stomach lurched at the sensation unhappily.

_Mmph...didn't think that would have that effect. I hope this isn't serious...it shouldn't be. It isn't. I bet this is just residue from the lock system. Ha. Well, this is our first step to understanding the entire process._ Scriabin took a deep breath. _I'll have to take notes on what's going on here. Either way, it's not serious. I can fix this._

Scriabin so often sounded like he was trying to convince himself of what he was saying.

Edgar thought back to the argument they had just had, what they had been saying to one another, and again the shades of gray that he so often forgot. It was hard to keep all facets of a person in mind while interacting with them, especially with someone like Scriabin.

"Why are you helping me?"

_That makes the fifteenth time you've asked me that. Going for the record? Uuf, let's see...you know why I'm helping you. I've made this clear several times ear- can you move now?_

Edgar attempted to move his arm and found that it responded, although slowly. "Yeah, getting there."

_Good. That means I'm onto something._

"Well...thank you, I guess."

Another moment of silence.

_My home too, _he eventually mumbled. _What can I say. It's us for me. Maybe someday it'll be us for you too. Rrgh...this makes no sense...how could this be...hmm._

With a quick jerk, the room stopped moving and Edgar was back on his bed again. He moved his other arm cautiously and stared up at the ceiling through a fading haze of red stars and spots. Been pressing a bit too hard he supposed. After he felt a bit more steady, he turned his head to see the action figure standing on his desk, still frozen in the same position as always. He felt like he was looking for something when he looked at the toy, but he wasn't sure what it was.

"Okay, it's gone now. Everything stopped moving."

"Good." Scriabin was breathing a little fast. "That wasn't too difficult. Now that I know where to look, I can prevent that from happening again. It's nothing to be worried about."

Edgar wanted to believe that.

"I hope this isn't a sign."

"C'mon, Edgar. If there was going to be a sign, it would have come much earlier than now."

"Hmm..."

"Either way, where were we?"

"Freedom, or lack thereof I think."

"Well..." Trying to regain his train of thought. "I think I presented my views fairly clearly. It's up to you whether you decide to recognize them or not. I think you'll find that all my arguments are logically sound. It's a matter of whether you decide to continue living your familiar lie, or whether you accept the life you could have."

"It's not quite as simple as you make it out to be." Edgar felt the beginnings of a headache coming on. "I also seriously doubt all your arguments are logically sound, as you put it. Either way, I'll keep it in mind. What else?"

Scriabin's voice darkened.

"Jimmy."

"Oh God, that's right." Edgar pressed his hands over his eyes.

"You gave him a window of two weeks. I don't know if he'd believe you or trust you after it all, but it at least gives us a timeframe to work with. It may not be accurate, but it's what we have. Now, you said you wanted to help Jimmy. I would like to continue keeping thoughts in check and ask you how, but instead I'm going to ask you why."

"Scriabin, I know you're upset that he threatened me." The headache was getting worse. "That doesn't justify throwing his life away. I can't do that. It's not right."

"Not right...?" Scriabin sounded genuinely confused for a moment, then hardened his voice. "You think this is about him threatening you? Feh. This is about more than that. I do find it rather amusing that you assume I was trying to protect you." He sounded anything but amused. "There's more than one person in your body, remember? I was trying to protect myself."

Edgar rolled his eyes again. "I somehow doubt that, given what you said and what you felt. Didn't occur to you that sometimes the link goes both ways, did it? I did feel your concern, no matter how much you try to hide it. I'm not sure why you're trying to lie about it, but I suppose that's what you automatically do."

"You're learning how to kick people when they're already down." Scriabin was trying to hide the uncomfortable tone in his voice. "I didn't think you'd ever pick that up."

"Either way, the fact that he threatened me is hardly reason to let him die. I have a responsibility now. I have to stop him, or stop Johnny, or do something."

"Since when? When did his life suddenly become your responsibility?" He now sounded vaguely resentful. He was probably still upset about being confronted about his protective outburst. "His life is his own."

"That's an easy way to avoid responsibility. The fact of the matter is that if he does die, it would be partly my fault for not having tried my best to prevent it. If I can save his life, I will."

"Funny though, that the pedophile wasn't as deserving of your effort." A very nasty tone in his voice, and Edgar was taken aback. "Or for that matter, those two teenagers in the movie theater. What makes the difference?"

A very uncomfortable thought, and Edgar struggled to find a way to respond. "It's not a matter of who these people are...it's the position that I'm in to help them."

"Uh huh. So tell me, when Johnny left to attend to something down in the basements, leaving you with those two teenagers whose names you've probably already forgotten, why didn't you set them free? You were in quite the position to help them there. You were also in the position to tell Johnny to _stop torturing them_ and yet somehow that thought didn't cross your mind as you sat on the steps and watched. Why is that?"

"Well..." He was too complacent...Scriabin had easily backed him into a corner. He forgot this was what he did best. "It's that...I guess that back then, things were...things were different between me and Nny. I mean...I couldn't really...talk to him back then. I was too afraid-"

"So what you're telling me, essentially, is that you were unwilling to help two suffering human beings just because you were afraid? Afraid for your own life? In the light of this and other such events in the past, it's a bit much for me to accept your avenging crusader role now. You've already let a number of human beings slip through your fingers, people you were entirely capable of helping, without a twinge of conscience. But now suddenly, Jimmy is worth your attention? Suddenly Jimmy is your responsibility? What makes him different? What makes him any more worthy of your help than the others you ignored? You've let down countless others, hundreds perhaps, by your lack of action. Forgive my skeptical nature, but I hardly believe that your intention to rescue Jimmy is either sincere or out of the goodness of your heart. It won't erase the people that you've forgotten. If you're afraid of getting indirect blood on your hands, I regret to inform you that you're completely _drenched_ in it."

Edgar stared at his hands.

Scriabin gave a contented sigh. "God, that felt good."

Edgar buried a hand in his hair and closed his eyes. "Shut up."

"But seriously, Edgar, why. Jimmy means nothing to you. As a matter of fact, he threatened to kill you. How ironic. Do people have to want to murder you for you to want to save them?"

Ouch. Edgar winced, but couldn't think of anything to say in response.

"Either way, Jimmy is not worth your attention. He's not your responsibility. You did, in my opinion, more than enough to try and dissuade him from his suicidal visit with Johnny, and he refused to listen. He's a moronic teenager who thinks that his problems are the be-all end-all of the earth, and assumes that everyone else agrees with him. He idolized Nny merely because he represents what he wants to be, romanticized what he wants Nny to do. All petty high school revenge fantasies of getting back at the teachers and kids that pushed you around with some high-gloss goth poetry 'beauty of death' polish to try and make it seem less shallow. He has no concept, no ability to understand the scale of his problems as compared to, say, a sociopath like our dear Nny. All of these are character flaws though, hardly enough to warrant killing someone, although perhaps you'd disagree. You did let those two from the movie theater suffer immensely, die probably, for merely being obnoxious."

His head was pounding. An insistent throbbing pain was building in what felt like the lower part of his skull.

"I'm not a bad person..." He couldn't think of anything else to say.

Scriabin ignored him. "Jimmy has killed people. He's a murderer and from what I heard while you were drifting off at one point, I'm fairly sure he raped someone as well. These are crimes which are on a far grander scale than almost any of the people Nny has encountered and killed. You have to agree with me that Jimmy's crimes easily surpass those of the clerk who turned off the Brainfreezy machine at the wrong time or whatever it was that poor man did. Not only that, Jimmy hasn't even expressed any kind of remorse for what he's done, instead reveling in the fact that he ended someone's life for an unbelievably stupid reason. He seems completely and utterly aware of exactly what he's doing _and_ entirely capable of stopping himself from doing it, and yet, he does, and did, not do so. Jimmy can't even play the insanity card, for all the good it does, as a justification for what he's done like Johnny can."

"Mmph."

"Now, let's play some hypothetical games here. Let's say that our fanboy Jimmy gets caught killing someone. He's jailed and sent to court, and let's assume that the evidence has built up, as he was too stupid to hide it properly-"

"Glad to see you're being impartial."

"Too stupid to hide it properly, and he's pronounced guilty. Let's say he's killed a number of people, though it pales in comparison to his idol, and not only that, he's also convicted for the rape of that girl. Now, how would the state deal with this criminal?"

"I don't know." Edgar didn't want to talk about this. "Life sentence I guess."

"Maybe. But, depending on what state you're living in, there's a chance that he could get the death penalty. Now tell me, if you've been following this as I hope you have, what the difference would be from Jimmy meeting his end at the hands of his misguided idol or in the tight embrace of an electrical chair. What would be the difference? What makes one more just than the other? Are you willing, Edgar, to go against the pronouncement of the law that he should die to support your theory that he deserves to live? Does your responsibility for him end when the law takes him off your hands, and by extension, wouldn't your responsibility end when he falls into Johnny's hands, just as he always intended?"

"No. It's not right." He shook his head and wished the pain would stop.

"Why?"

"It just isn't!" Backed into a corner and he couldn't find a way to logically justify what he just _knew_. Having to explain the unexplainable- why did Scriabin have to be so good at this? "If I can prevent this, if I can save him, I'm going to try."

"As I said before, why him? Why him, out of the hundreds of others who have died, perhaps unjustly, under Johnny's blade? Why is your righteousness so selective?"

"God, shut up! How can you be like this?" Edgar turned towards the action figure. "How can you argue like this to let someone die? How can someone's life mean so little to you?"

A pause, then Scriabin replied in a smooth, even tone, "I present the same question to you."

"You can't judge me-, ngh!" He pressed his hands to his head. "These are different situations, things are different! Just because..."

"I'm afraid there's little logical recourse for you with this scenario. You are not responsible for Jimmy. It's his own stupid fault if he gets killed, and what's the loss if he is? He's a murderer and a rapist and a remarkably stupid one at that. Although he does serve as an ironic piece to the main focus of so many of our conversations-"

_Do you think it's okay that I kill people, Edgar?_

_Nny, it is possible to like a person without liking what they do-_

"What about Nny? By your logic, it wouldn't matter if he died as well, since he's also done bad things."

There was that bitter hatred that he had yet to hear directed at any other target. "Do you think I'd argue with you on that point? Where on earth did you ever get the impression that I liked Johnny at all? I've told you since the beginning that there's no worse relationship you have than with him. You just never listened, and look where it's gotten you."

No...thinking back, sifting through his memories and Edgar found things once said that _encouraged_ him, encouraged him to deepen the relationship that Scriabin now claimed to despise. It hadn't been his idea to hug him for one thing, among others, and

_That didn't quite turn out the way we expected, did it?_

We.

Contradiction...the thought cast a sudden and intense light on what Scriabin was saying, and Edgar spoke slowly. He had to make sure that his suspicion was well-founded, before...

"...You want him dead?"

"I want him out of your life. He's a distraction now, an unhealthy and unproductive one. Surely you concede there is a great deal more at stake here than whether or not Nny loves you and whether or not you love him in return. Your soul and your sanity are in jeopardy, if they're not already lost."

Just as he thought.

"You know..." Edgar narrowed his eyes. "I would like to take what you're telling me at face value, but you've reminded me that that's not a good idea. There's more to this than what you're saying, and there's more to your argument than the logical front you're putting on. I remember, Scriabin, what you said to Jimmy when he threatened me. I remember how you felt. I remember how _possessive_ you felt. I know there's more to you wanting Jimmy dead than just him being a...a bad person."

"It'd be much simpler that way, wouldn't it?" His voice more hostile. "If this was all tied up with emotional baggage that would invalidate the truth, make it less believable. I'm afraid I can't indulge you here, Edgar. Here's one fantasy that I will not cooperate with you on."

"No..." Edgar looked at the wall for a moment, thinking over his words carefully. There was a good chance that he could only say this once, because if Scriabin reacted the way he thought he would... "There's always something more with you. There's always some kind of...ulterior motive, some deeper motivation for what you say to me. From the very beginning you lied to me, said you were a part of me, and used my doubt and my fear to develop. You say that I had a hand in your development and yes, I'm sure that's true, but you're not entirely innocent yourself. There's always something more to you, Scriabin, there's always more to your words than you'd like me to think about. So often I tend to focus on what you say, too often have I thought about how it would affect me and I never considered that my reaction may have been part of your motivation..."

"What does this have to do with anything?" Scriabin's voice was rough. "You pointed out to me before that I was justifying something to myself by going on and on with all those _words_. Say what you want to say."

Edgar winced at the reference to Jimmy, then narrowed his eyes further. He could feel the muscles near his mouth twitch for a moment. _Here goes._ "This isn't about my morality, about any kind of ethics. This isn't about Jimmy at all. You don't want me to become independent, become strong like you said back then. I didn't even realize it at the time, it didn't even occur to me since I was still...I was hurting from the lie you had told me. God, using that moment against me, you...you'll do anything to get what you want! You don't want me to make my _own_ decisions about my life, you want me to make _yours_! First you said that I'd have to depend on myself, and then right after that it was all about you! I had to depend on you! My weapon, my support, my everything, it all comes back, _came_ back, to you!"

"Edgar!" An angry cry, and Edgar suspected that it was to buy him some time to think while simultaneously stopping the conversation. "Do you remember what I said earlier? Do you remember what I said about how I experience your emotions? How at times I have a clearer view of what's going on inside you than you yourself do?"

"You always say that-"

"Well then understand this," Scriabin hissed. "What you wanted more than anything back then was someone to rely on, someone to take your god's place. I felt it, I felt your pain and I took on that role for you back then because that's what you wanted me to do. Whenever things get too hard, you always fall back on relying on me. What I was trying to get across was that you should try to prevent that-"

"No!" He was looking hard enough, looking through and it all shattered underneath his scrutiny, underneath his skepticism that he now realized he had been neglecting. Lie after lie falling apart, tied together by those threads that Scriabin had mentioned, a badly knit sweater and Edgar reached out and grabbed the action figure with one hand. "You didn't say that- God, you're lying to me! You're lying right to my face! How can you, how could you lie to me like that back then, back when I needed...back when I was hurting that badly? How could you lie to me about something so important? This isn't about me becoming powerful, it's about you!"

"And what about me-"

"This is about you! This is about, this is about what you want me to do! This isn't about what I want, this isn't about what I need, what I should become, this is all about what _you_ want! Everything, everything you ever told me, it was all for you, to make me what you want me to be! It was all an effort, God, a huge...a huge elaborate _lie_ to get me to believe that for once you cared about something other than yourself! That you ever had anything other than your own benefit in mind! Just using me- I'm not your tool, Scriabin! I'm not your toy! You don't own me!"

"Yes, that honor belongs to Johnny, doesn't it?"

Edgar stared at the action figure and his mouth fell open.

"Don't think that because I haven't been as cruel as before that I can't be so now." Scriabin's voice was filled with hate. "Don't think me harmless. Exposing a lie doesn't render me powerless, if that was a lie to begin with-"

His grip tightened until his fingers ached and trembled. "You know it was, just _stop pretending_-"

"What do you hope to accomplish with this?" His tone was flippant and condescending. Not taking him seriously and intentionally, deliberately, making that clear. Edgar felt his heart quicken as his anger built higher. "Again, are you looking for insight into my psyche? Do you want to know what I want? Another reprisal of that all-too-often asked question, masked in anger and righteous indignation? I have doubts now, Edgar, that you really want to know the truth about me, about what I want. It's something you wouldn't want to hear, and therefore you'd just block it out. Pretend it never happened."

Edgar wasn't going to let this go. Not this time. "Don't change the subject. You were _lying_ to me. You were. You always have been. This isn't about me, this isn't about my sense of ethics." He was surprised at the mocking tone he took with his last three words. "You couldn't care less, could you? All that talk about my conscience, about hating what I do to myself, how I need to stop torturing myself, it was all a lie, wasn't it? All of it, all of this sympathy and kindness you've given me, it was all...just manipulating me, just getting me to do and believe what you want! To rely on _you_ rather than God!"

Scriabin's tone was dismissive. "Black and white, Edgar. Just because I lied about one thing doesn't mean I lied about them all."

Edgar glared for a few seconds, then threw the toy as hard as he could. It hit the wall with a loud thump and fell to the floor.

"How could I have _ever_ trusted you!" Edgar was furious and this time found no regret or fear at the feeling. It was anger at a source deserved; it was anger that could safely be expressed without ramifications because he wasn't human. Scriabin wasn't real. He kept forgetting that and it was time for that to stop. "How could I have ever thought you'd think of someone besides yourself, that you'd ever have anyone's welfare in mind except your own! I'm just a glorified vessel for you, a toy to be manipulated, an elaborate marionette, well, not anymore! This is _my_ body! I was here first!" Edgar stood and walked over to where the action figure rested on the floor. It looked small against the carpet, broken. "I was here first. You came after me and you fed yourself from me, and I allowed it. _Allowed_ it. In the end this body is mine and it will always be mine. I make my _own_ decisions, I define my _own_ life, I define _myself_. It's not your place to make decisions for me, to try and change my life to suit your needs. You're a parasite, a delusion, perhaps some indication of future psychosis, but you are _not_ a person. You are _not_ a real person. You don't have rights, you don't have any claim to my body just because you chewed out a place in my brain to stay. You have no claim to me. I don't belong to anyone except myself, not you and not Johnny. I don't belong to you..."

Nothing.

Edgar knelt and looked at the toy. One of the arms was out of joint, and the head was tilted at a strange angle. He reached out and began to adjust, to fix what had been knocked askew.

"You're mine. You're my voice. When I felt you get angry, when I felt your anger at Jimmy, I felt touched at first. Now I realize...you just don't understand." There, he found it, the perfect condescending cadence that mocked and mimicked Scriabin's tone from earlier, the dismissive tone that spoke of an unsurpassable inequality of status. The overwhelming assertion through each syllable, each deliberate pause and emphasized word, that he was better than the person he was talking to, now and forever. Wouldn't Scriabin be proud of him. "You really think you're human, you really think that you're my equal. That somehow we're really two people, rather than one person and one mental monologue that's gone on far too long. You've berated me for so long for laboring under my own illusions and yet you've held one for yourself. Pretending to be human, to be real, that my body is your body. Well, it isn't, it wasn't, and it never will be. My body is mine, my mind is mine, and they will _never_ be yours. You will _never_ be more than what you are. I don't know where you got the impression that you could ever do so. You're desperation for reality, for _my_ validation, is pathetic."

Trying hard to dig at the one weakness he knew Scriabin had, and his voice was shaking along with his hands. He wanted it to stop, but the more he tried to cease the trembling the worse it got. Something like adrenaline must be causing this, he was sure. His rage felt familiar and addictively powerful and he never wanted it to end.  
The action figure now clutched tightly in one fist and his knuckles were white.

"I know you can hear me." Edgar felt his lip curling in a snarl. "I know you can hear what I'm saying. You've become too self-important, too self-absorbed for your own damn good. You never thought I'd catch on to your manipulation, all those lies you weave around me. Pretending at my freedom and just trapping me yourself. God, you've always been my enemy. How could I have been so blind?"

Nothing.

"Talk to me!" Edgar shook the action figure as if that would renew the conversation. "I know you can hear me! Don't pull away from me, oh ho, don't pass out halfway through this, our little session together!" He found the words rasping through clenched teeth, choked with bitterness and long-repressed rage. "After everything you've done to me- Christ, Scriabin, you even lied about loving me, that's how desperate you are to control me! You always condemn me for so many faults and you have the exact same ones! We're so alike, and yet that's the last thing you could want! Except when it serves your purpose, when it prevents me from attacking you- answer me! Answer me, god_damn _it!"

Stubborn silence.

"God, and to think I could ever depend on you." Still shaking and this was definitely adrenaline now, he could feel it. His entire body shuddering in waves, clenched tight in his stomach and spreading tremors through his limbs, causing the toy to shake in his hand as he struggled to keep still. "To think that I was ever that stupid, that hurt, to depend on you. Depend on what? A voice in my head? A desperate delusion? I can't depend on you, I could never depend on you, you have as many faults as I do except you aren't even open about them! You're deeper in denial than I could _ever_ hope to be! How could I depend on someone like you? How could I ever depend on such a shameless hypocrite, on such a _compulsive liar_?"

He stood, walked back over to his bed, and set the action figure back on his desk. Edgar wanted to slam it down, throw it again, but something made him put the toy down the same way and in the same place he always had.

All that anger he had sublimated into other things, had kept hidden away for fear of hurting someone or himself or making some kind of grievous error, all of it now coursed through him and it felt so natural. It all felt so _right_, and he hadn't felt this confident in what he was doing for so long. He felt capable, strong and able to defend himself, to reinvent himself, to take back what he had let slip out of his hands without thought and over it all that anger that made it seem so real, so permanent, so plausible.

"No, I won't depend on you, Scriabin. I won't listen to you. I am _never_ listening to you again. This is it. I'm taking responsibility for my life. I'm taking my life back. My decisions are my own now and if you don't like them then that's too bad. You have no power over me. The only power you have is the power I gave you, and I can take it away. I'm afraid that's a side-effect to being an unwelcome parasite."

Still silent and that only fed his rage. He didn't just want to be angry, that wasn't enough he wanted to _hurt_ someone- "What's wrong? The last thing you could ever do was stop talking. What's wrong now? Can't find anything to say, any logical traps to hide what you really want? Any smartass remarks? Twisted metaphors or Biblical mockery? What's wrong? Since when have you ever been at a loss for words?"

Silence and he felt his hands clench, his entire body shake for a moment and he could see himself pulling the toy apart, ripping out arms and legs and throwing it in the garbage disposal in the kitchen. He stood there, envisioned himself doing it, could hear the plastic squeaking as he tore limbs from their sockets, the pop of the head coming off. Destroy him, destroy this, destroy everything once and for all.

And for a few seconds, he thought of it as murder, then he bitterly corrected himself. It wasn't murder if the other person didn't even exist.

He could see himself destroying the emblem of what he so hated so clearly, so easily, but he did not move. He stood and tried to force motion, yelled at his limbs to obey but instead he only stood and stared.

Edgar turned away and felt a twinge of nausea again, the room spinning just slightly. This felt familiar, but he was not letting that distract him.

"You make me sick," he said in a low voice, then turned to his closet. "You make me _sick_. I'm going out and guess what, you're coming along. You know why? Because you can't stop me. You can't stop me from doing what I want anymore. I'd say that we were going out, but _we're_ not. _I_ am, and you're coming along whether you want to or not. Isn't that right?" He took off his glasses, considered setting them to one side carefully, then found that he didn't care. He tossed them onto the carpet without much concern, then pulled off his shirt with motions so quick that his ears stung afterwards. He searched through his drawers for a clean shirt, finding that the insistent silence, the complete mental silence only made him want vengeance more strongly, want to hurt him more, to hurt him as Edgar had been hurt before. How could he have ever thought that Scriabin could ever feel sympathy? Apologize? Even feel at all?

He pulled a shirt on and picked up his glasses. They were undamaged--Edgar had specifically asked for stronger frames--and he stared again at the toy standing by his bed.

"Why won't you answer me?" Edgar stalked back over to his dresser and found his voice rising. He didn't want it to, but before he knew it he was shouting. "I know you can hear me! I know you can hear me because you hear everything, don't you? You can hear and feel _every_thing, so I know you can hear me! Answer me! Say something!" He felt dizzy but he wasn't going to sit down.

Still refused to speak, but finally Edgar could hear something in the back of his mind. Breathing.

"I know you're there." He felt something rushing to his head and he wasn't sure where the floor was anymore. His vision slowly fading out, a faint kind of blackness around the edges, and he felt dizzy but he wasn't going to stop. "I can hear you. This is you, isn't it? You can't handle me standing up to you so you're hurting me physically again! Like you did before, when I had that...seizure thing. You can't argue with me normally, so you're just going to try and get me to pass out! It won't work this time! I won't let you do this to me, I won't let you have any power over me anymore! This is my life, this is _my life_! It's not yours! It will _never_ be yours! You will _never _have a life of your own!"

The floor shifting and the blackness flooding his vision and his head was pounding. All of it intensified, amplified by the amount of adrenaline currently coursing through his body, by the sheer undiluted rage he felt. Directed at Scriabin primarily, but even now it shifted to his own body, to whatever was happening, to the fact that the one time he was standing up for himself that something like _this_ had to happen.

A soft sound in his mind that he couldn't easily define, and the blackness began to fade away. The floor slowly began to stay in one place, stop shifting back and forth, and he found his sense of balance again.

_You should probably sit down._ Scriabin's voice was soft and emotionless.

"So there you are." Edgar glared at the toy and decided to stay where he was. He didn't have to listen to him. "Why so silent all of a sudden? What's wrong? Can't think of anyth-"

_Sit down. Something's gone wrong, something's got a hold of you. There's something in...something that's trying to...just sit down. It must have come in before, when...it doesn't know what it's doing, what effect it's having on you-_

"God, you never stop, do you?" Edgar said bitterly and crossed his arms. The floor again began to list to one side, but Edgar refused to move with it. "You can never stop lying. What are you blaming now?"

_Sit down._

"Not until you tell me why."

_I already did._ Scriabin's voice seemed strangely devoid of emotion, of the hurt that Edgar expected. He felt disappointed. _This thing is doing something to you. It's making you dizzy. If you sit down, I can-_

"God, looking back on it...there are so many things that I thought were something more, were something real. So many things that you could have done, could have used to try and gain my trust. When I was drifting before...that was you, wasn't it? You set up the situation, hurt me then pretend to help me. Set up these traps and rescue me and think that I'll fall for it, that that will give you that edge over me, give you more of the control you so desperately want. You were lying to me then...you're lying to me now. Of course you can fix this, you're the one who's doing it to me!"

_Sit down._

"No!" Edgar moved and that turned out to be a mistake. The floor abruptly turned and twisted beneath him, raised itself up and before he knew it he was on his back and he couldn't feel his legs.

_Okay, I can...I can figure this out..._ It sounded like he was talking to himself.

_Stop it!_ Edgar wanted to speak out loud but found his voice internal. _Stop this, I know what you're doing now! I know what this means! I won't fall for it again, stop lying to me for once in your life-_

_I can fix this..._ Scriabin's voice shook. _I can fix this, I know I can-_

_Stop it!_ He wanted to feel his body again, he wanted to feel but his body wasn't moving, nothing was responding. He could feel the beginning of panic, the desperate desire to escape, to get away. Something pressing on his chest and it was getting harder to breathe.

_I can..._

_Why are you doing this to me?!_ That was it, that was the question that he had longed to ask since he first heard Scriabin's voice, and he shut his eyes tight.

A strangled noise in the back of his mind and in response, a twinge of compassion. He didn't expect it, didn't think of it, didn't want it, but there it was and with it came an instinctual question.

_Are you okay?_

After all this work, this rage that built so high and felt like it took over his whole body, all of it, after all of it he still felt it...he still felt concerned. He had struggled not only to show Scriabin that he knew the truth, but to make himself stop believing in the lie, stop believing that Scriabin was anything more than what he had said. Struggled to finally cut this off, to remove the shades of gray that were false to begin with. And yet, he still felt it and he still asked and even with the regret that followed, it did not vanish.

Connection. If Edgar felt that concern, then...

_Oh my god. Oh shit. _Recognizable terror and small frightened words. _Oh. Shit. I..._

_What's going on? _Successfully distracted from his ranting, and his concern continued unchecked. What on earth was Scriabin this afraid of? Even when Edgar had rewritten his memories, he hadn't sounded this frightened. _Scria-_

_What are- get..._ Scriabin's words were choking and broken. A pained gasp, something like desperation, and he could hear him hiss. Another stuttering cry and then a scream tore its way through the back of his mind, startled him out of any angry thoughts that he had been entertaining. _GET AWAY FROM HIM._

_Scriabin-_

_Get out! _Scriabin paused, took a few harsh breaths._ Get out! Get out!_

_Who-_ Something anguished and short and again that twinge of compassion. _What's-_

_I won't let this, I won't let you, get out. Get out! Get out, he's mine!_ A hoarse scream that he knew would have been painful if forced through physical vocal cords. _I won't let you touch him! I'll kill you! I'll fucking kill you first! Get out!_

_What's going on? _Helpless, trapped in a weak body, and where was his flash of black now? Edgar's arm moved. _Who are you talking to?_

A low growl in response to his question. The room abruptly turned beneath him and he tried desperately to steady himself, to find a sense of balance, some kind of center that wouldn't change.

A very long scream of pain in his mind, and he felt something tear.

The world stopped spinning, the rushing sound in his head stopped, and when he opened his eyes he could see.

Edgar sat up after a few seconds, shook his head, found no lasting effects from the motion, then looked at the toy on his desk as if it'd give him answers. Still standing in the same position as ever.

_Scriabin?_

Watched but he didn't move.

His concern far more intense, his words quick and high. He didn't even think to prevent it. _Scriabin, are you okay?_

_Nnngh..._

Edgar breathed a sigh of relief at the soft moan. _What happened?_ He felt drained, nervous somehow. His entire body still shaking but he wasn't exactly sure why. The aftereffects of adrenaline he could guess. All anger vanished in the face of this unknown danger, and now he wasn't sure what to do. _Are you okay? What's going on? Who were you talking to?_

A shaky sigh. _I'm..._

_What happened?_

_Edgar...listen..._

_What?_

_Some of the things you said..._ He sounded exhausted. _Some of the things you said before...I can't say they're false. But I want you...to keep in mind that I'm not the only one who wants to manipulate you. I'm not the only one who now has...access to you. The danger that you face is not all from me...this system..._

_That...what was that? What happened?_

_Let's just say...if you'll believe me of course, _trying to touch his words with familiar scorn but his voice shook too much, _that there's a pipeline...an avenue open through you for hate to come through...and let's say that there are things that find you a...potential home._

Edgar's mouth went dry. _What? What do you...do you mean something tried to..._

_I'm afraid that I...disagreed with them on that point. Nngh..._ Another shaky sigh. _This is...you can say all you like, disagree all you like, lie as much as you want about it, about what I've become and what I've taken from you but in the end...this is mine. This is my home. I'm not about to let some...some two-bit figment try to take what's mine...what I've worked so hard for...I don't think so. No._

An attempt at bravado, but it was painfully transparent now. _Is that what this is? I don't...think that's all. I can feel it again...you want to protect me, don't you?_

Scriabin tried to laugh but began wheezing halfway through. _Protect you...you fool. How easy it is for you to forget everything...forget anything that doesn't agree with your current argument, whatever you currently believe...you're such a fool. Do you think, my dear boy, my precious Edgar, that I am the worst thing that could happen to you? Do you think that of all the parasites, as you call them, that could be inhabiting your mind right now, that I am truly the worst there is? That I am really the worst thing in the world for you?_

Edgar shivered once and then couldn't stop. Oh God...

_My dear, foolish, boy...you don't understand. You don't understand what I am...what I mean, what I could be...what happened. Why don't you just forget about it...it's not important to you..._

Edgar ignored the attempt to derail the conversation, tried to find something to focus on. _You sound like you're in pain..._

_Hnh. Since when have you ever been perceptive?_ It sounded like it was difficult for him to speak. _Since when have you ever cared for your unwilling passenger? Your inhuman parasite? Huh...protect you indeed. I assure you that nothing is taking my place, not while I'm still alive. Nothing is going to set up shop here, not here. I said that I'd fight this system and I will. This is my territory, and I'll fight for it. You should study that sometime, Edgar...fighting...I know you're not familiar with it..._ His voice trailed off.

It didn't even occur to him to contest Scriabin's constant references to ownership. _What did you do? How could you have...wouldn't I have seen it? Or been aware of it?_

_Too wrapped up in your shouting, I suppose..._ His voice was getting weaker. _You don't have a talent for paying attention to multiple things at once. Nngh, and what does it matter to you anyway...? I don't matter to you, as you so eloquently stated. Rage...didn't you think while you yelled about how unusual it was, that you felt so angry? How alien, how foreign? God, and I thought we had a chance...if you're this unaware of this system's effects...if you succumb so easily to some small thing's temptation, then what hope is there really for us? Or rather, for you?_

_You're not giving up._

_Very true..._ His breath caught for a second, and for a moment he heard a soft whine of pain. _I'm not going to give up. Ha, I don't think...when whoever runs this system finds out what I've done...I don't think they'll be pleased._

Edgar took a deep breath and stared at his hands. They kept shaking and he could see the indentations from his nails pressing into his palms. His thoughts were scattering and he had to keep thinking, he had to keep talking and keep everything in line.

"Then...you're not a part of the lock system, are you?"

_Of course... _A soft sigh, and real effort. "Of course I'm not. I thought that much would at least be obvious, even to you..." His physical voice sounded even weaker than the mental.

"So...you must be something different."

"Where are you going with this?" Scriabin only sounded vaguely interested.

"Encroaching on your territory...do you think that the system will try to use you? Use you against me?"

"God, I don't know." Scriabin let out a deep sigh. "You understand if I'm a little...tired. It may not seem as such to you, but I've just been through..."

"Hmm..." Edgar pressed a shaking hand to his chin in hopes that would make the tremors stop. Scriabin couldn't have been a part of the lock system...even if he had been lying, there was enough evidence to prove him correct. After all, Scriabin had come into being far before the lock system had come into place. He had to be a part of something else...

"Funny..." Scriabin gave a wet cough. "You were so worked up earlier...hating so vengefully, so completely. Eloquently, I might add. You sounded a great deal like me...ha. But again, once the emotion passes, it falls to the background...we regain equilibrium...back to how things always were. I can't feel your hatred for me now, not like before. Come and gone...did it ever mean anything at all? Was any of it real..."

"I don't feel angry anymore..." Edgar shook his head. "That's a good thing...if this whole system is going to be kicking in more often...I'm going to have to be more careful with that. I can't let myself get...lost like that. I'm not angry. But just because I was angry doesn't mean I was wrong."

Scriabin made a short sound that perhaps would have become a word, but then he lapsed into silence. He breathed another deep sigh, this one with a faint rasp to it. "So many layers...there's more than one motivation for the actions that one takes sometimes..."

"It's kind of difficult...forgive me for doubting you on this point-"

"Again, imitating me..."

He didn't like that.

"But you understand that if one of your motivations is...inherently selfish, perhaps damaging to me..." Edgar sighed and felt something like apathy sweep over him. A lack of emotion, of any kind of involvement, but he had to finish what he was saying. "How can I believe that...how can I believe anything you say when I know that somewhere...it might not be true? That it might be for your own benefit, or just to hurt me? How can I risk that? Fool me once..."

"Again...one motivation is not all there is at times. I don't feel comfortable...some things that I have done are not...related to that, exactly. But as the relative trust we built is shattered, you understand my reluctance to talk about this. I doubt you'll believe anything I say...it's no fun to lie to someone who won't believe you..."

"You don't lie for fun."

"True enough." A kind of rasping sound. "Still...you won't believe me, whether or not I'm telling the truth. So...I feel inclined to just...not talk at all. Not to mention that I'm still bl- I'm...I'm not really..." He sighed. "I'm tired, Edgar."

"Well...you seem set on the fact that I not judge you for one of the reasons you've been doing this to me...what other ones are there? What other justification for your behavior is there? Why? What other reason for all of that...ego-saving talk in the church? You didn't believe that, did you? You've never believed in that...in my strength. Just presenting me with the illusion got me further under your power..."

"Edgar...this may come as a shock to you-"

"You always preface things that way."

"But manipulating you was not my original...intent. It's not what I was created for."

"Well, you were the one who brought up change."

"Does it even matter..." Another hoarse cough. "Does it even matter what I say now...does it matter what I would ask you? Does it matter..."

"You're changing the subject."

A pause. This time, Scriabin succeeded in changing his tone, his words familiarly touched with hateful sarcasm. "I'm sorry, I must have forgotten my place."

Edgar paused, considered apologizing, then turned to look at the ceiling. "But what other motivation could you have? Other than self-preservation...that relates right back to the manipulation though...that all of this is for your benefit, not for mine. Tell me, if you want to convince me to trust you again...was any of the affection, the kindness or concern you ever expressed for me...was any of it real?"

A cough.

"Scriabin...was any of it real? When I asked you...I asked you to...and you said that maybe later we could discuss this...well, I want to discuss it now. What do you feel for me?"

"May I ask you something first?"

"Avoiding the question again..."

He didn't say anything, and Edgar sighed.

"Fine, go ahead."

"I present the question back to you..." A coughing fit this time, and Edgar turned to look at the toy. Still motionless. "What do you care for me? Do you feel anything for me at all, my boy? I find that while your anger may have been foreign, may have been misplaced, you still...believed what you were saying. And to be honest...how much of it was true...?"

"I don't know." Edgar shook his head. "I don't know how I-...I...it's always changing. I can't...you're not...God, every time I talk with you, it's like I...I mean, what was our conversation just like? One minute you're perfectly civil and another you're sarcastic like always, and another you're hating and another you're hated, and then you're hurting or you're compassionate, and you talk about helping me and us and at the same time, you talk about control and belonging and ownership and God!" He pressed a hand against one of his eyes. "This sounds so stupid. Why can't it be simple? Why can't I just sum it up in one word?"

"You have before..." Scriabin's voice was weak and scratchy. "Shall we say it together?"

Edgar stayed silent, but Scriabin said it anyway.

"Hate."

"It can't be that simple. You know that. It isn't that simple and sometimes I wish it was." He shook his head again. "I can't...I can't hate you, I can't hate...I don't know if I've ever hated anyone. I mean, you've done things for me...you've helped me. You did...you protected me. And even if that was all a lie, an elaborate charade for me, you offered to protect me before and I know for a fact that was sincere. I know that wasn't a lie, and that makes things so complicated. There's...I can't say I like you, hardly...if at all, actually, but I can't say anything, I can't say anything definite. It's always changing. God, this sounds so stupid. This sounds like..."

"Well, I think you'll find that my feelings towards you can, likewise, not be so easily summarized." Scriabin gave a soft pained moan, shaky and uneven as he tried to stop the sound. "Please...I can't...I'm tired. I'm just tired..."

"Tired..." Edgar rolled over and looked at the toy again. The two were sharing perhaps their most honest moment in both their respective lifetimes, and Edgar took the chance to say what he knew was true. "You're not tired, you're _hurt_. Somehow. I still don't understand...I don't understand what reality must be like for you. There's a world that you keep talking about that I can't see...I can't even hear...it's just constantly just out of my sight. I don't understand. Have you created your own world, your own reality, within my mind? It can't be like that...that's not how the human mind works. How much of what you tell me is true?"

Another pained noise. "As much as you want to be true...nnf. I'm...I'm going to...tired..."

"What can I do to help?"

"What?"

"You...I swear, from the way you sound, it sounds like whatever it was you...fought off, I guess it would go, but it sounds like it tore you to pieces. Like you're in some serious pain. How? Why? What can I do?"

"It's never any intermediate with you...it's always black or white. Help me, hate me, never in between. No wonder you're confused."

"Stop avoiding the question."

"Mmph..." A soft laugh. "It's not so easy. You believed in what you said, and that creates a barrier that cannot be easily overcome. You don't consider me a person. You don't consider me real. You can't even think of the world that I inhabit, you can't empathize enough to try and think of how I would feel, about what my life may be like. All of this, these dehumanizing things you've done to me for so long, all of it creates this distance between us...you cannot simply wish me into being, make me appear in front of you so you can kiss it better and, and pretend it wasn't your fault that this happened to me in the first place."

"My fault? _My_ fault? You're the one who decided to tangle with whatever it was-"

"And you're the one who enabled that thing coming in here in the first place."

Silence.

"Surely you...you know that, you understand that this whole lock business...it's your fault. You can't blame anyone else for the situation we're in. You and your obsession with Nny, with the psychopath, and never thought that'd have, nngh, consequences..."

God, he wanted to dispute that, but Scriabin's current state forced him to curb his tongue. Fighting with him wouldn't help, now now. He had to find a more effective way to derail the potential argument.

"There's nothing that can be done about that now...the only thing we can do is..." Edgar stopped, and he remembered. "Assess the...damage..."

Flickering memories, the inside of his car and the trench coat-

"Scriabin, what happened back in the car?"

Scriabin groaned.

"Ah, I...I almost forgot."

"Do you..."

"Considering what just occurred..." Struggling not to sound quite so worn out. "I think that that black out...may be related to the lock system somehow..."

"But why would I black out like that? What benefit would that have?"

"What benefit would collapse have?" Scriabin snapped. "This system is far from perfect."

"I don't...I mean, God. What could have happened? I mean...something must have taken control of me...of my body, to get me to come from here to the church. Something possessed me..."

"I suppose you could think of it that way." Another soft groan. "Another possibility is that someone took you there..."

"No one was there when I woke up..."

"True. They could have left before you woke up though."

"And why would they take me there? It doesn't make sense...something took control of me, something took me over, I'm sure of it. God, that sounds...that sounds so horrible. I can't be losing control of myself this badly. Things can't be...this bad for me."

"Hardly speaks of some other conclusion."

"Are you sure you don't remember anything?"

"No, I don't remember anything." A pause, and his tone softened. "I wish I did remember. I'm no more happy with this missing time business than you. After all...it's our body."

"Our body..."

Scriabin groaned again, but didn't say anything in response.

"Are there...have we gotten anywhere?" Edgar sighed. "Have we accomplished anything with this? With talking about this? Except going back to the status quo..."

"Well, are you going to try to help Jimmy? I still don't see why you should." Scriabin managed to sound resentful.

Edgar stared at the toy for a few seconds.

"You don't have to. I'm going to try anyway."

Perhaps if he was in another state of mind, Scriabin would have been annoyed at Edgar's attempt to stop the conversation, to exert any kind of authority. Instead he hummed a snatch of a song, and Edgar recognized it as the tune from earlier that day.

A few minutes before Scriabin spoke again. "Fine. What did you have in mind?"

Edgar shook his head. "I'm not sure yet...I can't call Johnny, not after last time...even if he's disconnected that...I can't risk something like that."

"You can't find his house, either. So that's not an option...unless you focus on Todd's house instead."

"I could try and track Jimmy..."

"All you have is his first name."

Edgar was surprised that Scriabin was contributing, then thought a little harder. So far all he had presented were the negatives, the case against. It was too early to say that Scriabin was trying to help him.

"If I wait for Johnny to contact me...he might not try in time. Jimmy might've already found him by that point..."

"If he hasn't found him by now, that is."

"What time is it...?" Edgar glanced over at his alarm clock. "He won't be asleep, so I could go over there, but...I don't know if I want to bother him right now."

"He can be so moody, can't he? Tomorrow then?" Another failed attempt at sarcasm.

"Tomorrow...something. I'm going to do something this time." Edgar fell back against his mattress and stared at the ceiling. "I'm going to save someone this time."

He could feel the desire, soft in the back of his mind, to contest the statement, to rip holes in it until it had no meaning, and then it faded. Small vibrations, minor things that he had only just become aware of and he was still not sure how to listen.

How to listen...

He had always thought himself a good listener...

Sighs gone unrecorded and perhaps Edgar had been purposely deaf this entire time, but he thought that gave Scriabin too much credit, too much of what he wanted. He hadn't really heard it, thought of it until now, that much was true, but he wouldn't let that continue.

Not quite sure of what he was doing, but he tried to focus on that desire that had flashed across his own emotions so briefly. Familiar but distorted, twisted just slightly into that uniqueness that Scriabin had acquired at some time that Edgar could not easily remember.

Listened, focused, trailed. Found. He felt a sense of exhaustion and apathy that matched what had come over him previously, deep and resigned. The desire to just stop fighting for once, to stop this, to let it go for once, to rest. Beneath it all, he could feel shaking strands, thin strings electric of pain crackling near and sharp.

Scriabin was in pain. Real pain.

Edgar knew it, he could easily see through his claims of exhaustion. To feel it was a different experience entirely. His body did not respond to it, did not try to numb or ache the feeling. His mind accepted its reality, its existence, but it was uniquely not his. Still, he felt intimately aware of it, knowledgeable of how much it would hurt, distract, tear and torment and what it was doing to Scriabin. What effect it had on the other person, such close knowledge and yet that distance that differentiated the two. It was so close that Edgar feared that if he really tried, or maybe if he didn't, that that pain could easily become his. That if he reached out and touched it in some way, somehow, that it would easily jump from one person to another.

God, was this what it felt like for Scriabin? To be so closely aware, to be able to feel things so tangibly and yet from such a distance, such an unsafe boundary?

Soft breathing, labored and laced with the occasional sound, accidental from vocal cords not meant to be vibrating, unwilling indications of the process of dealing with pain. Something that Edgar assumed must have been his own heartbeat and he felt something ooze and flow, and wherever Scriabin was and whatever strange realm or reality he seemed to reside in, Edgar knew that he was curled into himself and he was bleeding.

Trying to hide from him, hide percieved weakness and Edgar knew pride wasn't his own particular moral failing...

Another frustrated whimpering sound, and then a soft sense of curiosity. Awareness of a spectator. He could sense some kind of anger beneath it, resentment, something that might have approached hatred, but mostly confusion.

Edgar opened his eyes, looked at the clock, and found that two hours had gone by.

_I..._ Edgar stared at the ceiling. _That was...I probably shouldn't do that again._

A moment of silence from Scriabin before he spoke, his voice shaky and soft. _Do whatever you want. I don't care._

_Not unless I'm prepared, I mean._ Not now, he didn't want to hurt Scriabin further. A quick recovery, clarification, and he hoped that Scriabin wouldn't hold it against him.

Someone knocked at his door.

Edgar should have felt more surprised, but instead there was just a vague sense of curiosity. He found himself already out of his room and walking towards the front door without the exact memory of doing so.

He should have felt something more than what he was, or wasn't, feeling. Anticipation, fear, something like that. There was only one person who would be at his door. Where was his fear?

He opened it.

There sat a box of once-frozen waffles.

Waffles.

Edgar stared at this without comprehending, or perhaps with some comprehension and just overwhelmed with the question of _why_, for a few minutes. Then he noticed a small note that rested on top of the brightly colored box.

It took a few mental commands before his body moved, but he eventually leaned over and picked up the scrap of paper. It was torn from something, Edgar wasn't sure what, and the writing on it was familiar. Sharp dark letters, a few random scratches here and there.

_Edgar_   
_I'm sorry for_   
_Have some waffles._

Edgar wasn't sure what it was that Johnny felt sorry for, but it was one of those rare moments that he apologized at all and, whether or not it was for anything Edgar could have prevented, he felt somewhat touched.

_Waffles?_ Scriabin perhaps meant to sound contemptuous, but instead sounded childlike and weak. _He got you waffles?_

"I guess so," Edgar said. He walked back into his apartment, shut the door, and walked to the kitchen. Without any thought, much as his trip to the door, he put the box in the freezer.

He stared at the scrap of paper, then watched his hands carefully pin the note to the fridge with the magnet that his phone company had sent him as a thank you for his patronage.

Edgar stared at the note and wanted to comprehend it, but nothing worked through. He knew this was deeper than it appeared, but he couldn't access it.

_Don't you have something to say about this?_ Desperate for some kind of meaningful input on the note and gift.

A pause, and then Scriabin made a soft "nuh uh" sound.

_Are you sure?_

The same sound, and a shaky sigh.

"Maybe I've been too close to you..." Edgar reached out and touched the edge of the note softly. "I'm sorry for...what does it mean? What does any of this mean?"

Edgar expected Scriabin to have an answer, whether or not it was one that he liked. Instead Scriabin just made a general "I don't know" kind of noise and again a flicker of emotion crossing his own, that gap where he knew he should be feeling something about this. Not his emotion there, and not intruding so boldly where Edgar's emotion should be, but it was just a tinge of Scriabin's confusion, exhaustion, and the soft crackling of pain beneath it all.

_Maybe he thought I...I'm not hungry. It's not a physical gift, or maybe it is. I'm indifferent to waffles...I don't think I've ever mentioned them to him._

Edgar walked back to his room, still confused.

_He's not giving up. _That sounded good._ Too close...he's not giving up. He's not giving up on me just yet._

He rested his head against his pillow and let his eyes close. He found another tinge of emotion, too soft and fast to be identified, and he tried to focus.

_I won't give up either._

He dreamed that night, dreamed of his room. He dreamed of his room, and of a man curled up against the dresser beside his bed, bleeding and alone. His trench coat was laid out carefully to one side, several holes ripped in the tough fabric that aligned with matching tears in the body of its owner. His striped shirt hung in tatters in places, giving glimpses of angry red gashes against skin, smeared blood and something black along the edges. He sat with his scraped knees drawn loosely to his upper body, though not close enough to aggravate the gaping hole through his shoulder and the slashes across his chest. Deep cuts across his arms, shallow scratches across his face bright red and burning, and his jeans were ripped and stained. He stared at bloody hands and shook uncontrollably.

Edgar dreamed that night, of walking to the shivering man and sitting beside him. He watched him flinch away, raise his hands to hide his destroyed shoulder, to hide the ripped muscle and flashes of bone through rent flesh.

He said something that he couldn't remember and the man raised a hand to him, as if to strike him. Edgar caught it before it could land, held it still, and Scriabin stared at him in confusion, still shaking.

Edgar looked at Scriabin's arm where several crisscrossing lines bled in a way that perhaps in a better state of mind he would have known to be impossible, an illusion. Instead, he took the antiseptic that had appeared beside him that had always been there, poured it into a shallow dish, dabbed a cotton ball that likewise always and just existed into it, and then touched it to the scratches.

He dreamed that Scriabin screamed when the alcohol burned through the cuts, seared through the wounds and that the sound had been far too familiar. It burned through to memories that he wanted to forget for the simple fact that they were memories, and often Edgar thought that memories did not have as much of an effect on the present as many supposed. Scriabin tried to pull away from him, to wrench his arm free, but Edgar tightened his grip and did not let him loose. Despite the jerking of his trapped arm, of the screamed curses and threats, Edgar worked.

Eventually Scriabin's struggles quieted and he was silent. Gauze that felt natural in his hand, pads of cotton and Edgar wrapped it carefully around and around, his hands following what felt like an ancient pattern but could never have been so old.

He dreamed that Scriabin sat still and stared at him while Edgar bandaged his arm. When Edgar tugged at his shirt, Scriabin raised his one good arm without protest and he carefully worked the torn fabric around the ruined shoulder, trying to avoid irritating the wound any further. The gashes across his chest were now more visible, pink and red and white and the definite evidence of some kind of claws, something animalistic. Scriabin hissed again when Edgar rested hands on his chest, felt for something although he wasn't sure what, and set to cleaning it. Scriabin's hand settled on Edgar's shoulder, clutched hard enough that Edgar felt as though his collarbone was bruised and the ache made it hard for one of his hands to find symmetry with the other, and as the disinfectant burned its way through his chest, Scriabin made rough gasping sounds, angry and helpless.

It was with a quiet certainty that Edgar worked, dreamed, found where his hands belonged and what they should be doing. He didn't question his knowledge of what to do, and neither did Scriabin. His hands kept moving.

More soaked cotton pads pressing against the tears, gauze stretched around to hold them in place, and Edgar alternately dipped towards and away from Scriabin as he rolled the gauze around his chest. His hands at times traveled up to Scriabin's shoulder blades, and he found them sharp and protruding, didn't want to touch them anymore so moved on.

He dreamed that Scriabin said nothing, that the affair was carried on in silence that didn't seem strange.

A metal clip to hold the wrapping in place, and then he turned to the shoulder. The most damage had been done here. Edgar felt certain that Scriabin either could not feel his paralyzed arm at all, or was in excruciating pain and could not find the motivation to move, to make it worse.

He wiped away the blood that had turned the area red, found the limits of the wound and he did not have to think of what to do. Under his hands he found that the edges knit together, some flesh renewed but not all, rough stitches appearing through and across Scriabin's skin. His fingers moved without true thought, lifting invisible needles and keeping the thread clear of tangles, and with each line that appeared, that dragged Scriabin's skin closer together, he could hear another gasp, strained and with more voice than he must have desired.

Sewn shut, and then he cleaned, he pressed the cotton ball against the rough edges, he let Scriabin rest his head on his shoulder and make agonized inarticulate sounds. He found the materials he needed appearing beside or in his hand; a brace to keep the shoulder in place, a way to stop him from moving too much, exerting himself too frequently.

He dreamed that he pulled Scriabin's head away from his shoulder and looked at his face. The scratches dragged their way across his cheeks, his mouth, and his nose. His eyes remained free from damage, as somehow Edgar knew they would. Dark hair stuck to Scriabin's skin, sweaty and matted perhaps with blood, but he couldn't tell for sure. He brushed the hair away from Scriabin's face, stared at his reflection in his glasses, and found that he did not care. Constantly hidden from him, but that was all right.

He rubbed away the blood on his face, watched him wince and try to turn away, but not with enough force to succeed. Edgar set his hand on his other cheek to hold him still as he cleaned the scratches despite Scriabin's flinching wordless protests. Bandages that he found beside him when he reached out his hand, and he applied them and still Scriabin stared at him, and still he said nothing. Silence between the two of them and Edgar was too busy to think of why.

The last open cut tended to, and Edgar leaned back. Scriabin continued to stare at him, and it was hard to tell how he felt. Edgar stared back, and he found that he could not find how he felt either.

Something resolved, but he wasn't sure what it was. Something mattered, something gained meaning, something found meaning, but he didn't know what it was. A hazy mist that hovered over him, that kept trying to remind him of other things, but instead he merely looked over the dressings he had applied, thought over whether or not they were satisfactory, whether that one or this one could be altered slightly, tightened or loosened.

Something happened, but he couldn't remember what. All blurry and indistinct, except the image of Scriabin sitting, swathed in white and pink bandages, staring at him and Edgar realized he didn't have to _see_ how he felt, and he reached out a little, followed that thread and then he felt it, he felt his confusion. Complete desperate confusion and yet he said nothing.

Scriabin knew and Edgar knew that neither had an answer for any question presented now, any explanation for this. Edgar reached out a hand, and Scriabin reached out his matching hand, matching skin, and something happened, but Edgar couldn't remember what at that point. Swirls and shapes and things got indistinct, and something rough brushed against him, and the one image that remained clear, the one image that he could remember of Scriabin sitting all white and black and pink and staring at him.  
Stared and Edgar's hands, his hands.

He dreamed.

He dreamed that he took care of him.

Edgar woke up, and he decided that that morning, he would have waffles for breakfast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: The book mentioned in here is _Flatland: A romance of many dimensions_ by Edwin A. Abbott. It's a weird little book. You can check it out at www alcyone com / max / lit / flatland /


	20. Fantasy

He meant to go to Johnny's house after he ate breakfast.

He meant to go to Johnny's house after he went to work.

He meant to go to Johnny's house after he had a shower and ate dinner.

He meant to go to Johnny's house after he finished reading about mental disorders.

When he was arguing with Scriabin on his bed, he wasn't sure when he meant to go, or what he wanted to do about anything.

Angry words exchanged, things said intended to be hurtful, harmful, and it looked as if their relationship was shifting towards the negative territory for now. Scriabin was angry at him for reasons he wouldn't explain, and when Edgar asked him what they were, asked him why, it was like an insult somehow. Like he should already know.

When Edgar tried to bring up what he had done the previous night, in dreams, Scriabin reacted with a hostility that Edgar was fairly unfamiliar with and he immediately backed down.

All Edgar could gather was that he had done something wrong, that something was his fault, and that Scriabin had never planned for this, whatever "this" was. All things they had visited at one argument or another, and not topics they were unfamiliar with. This time though, Edgar felt particularly left out. He had no idea why Scriabin was upset and at least previously, he had some kind of inkling.

Edgar was sure Scriabin wanted revenge for whatever it was that Edgar had done, thus why he was acting this way. However, since Scriabin was being so maddeningly and inexplainably reticent about the entire matter, Edgar didn't know how to fix it, how to make up for it. Therefore, Scriabin hated him for it. At least, that's the impression he got from him.

Everything getting worse and worse and comments that normally would have been merely sarcastic, flippant only a day ago, now had a vicious and venomous point to them.

How quickly things changed, or...

Scriabin said things, reminded Edgar of reality, of what was really important, and Edgar ended up lying on his bed and staring at the ceiling.

He meant to go to Johnny's house.

Instead he categorized every aspect of Hell that he could remember.

Before he drifted off, another day wasted and now hatefully so, Scriabin pointed out, mockingly, that the majority of his life had _meant_ to be lived and hadn't been, in one way or another.

And that's how he got himself into this.

Meant to, meant to, meant to.

Apparently, never meant to enough.

Scriabin laughed at him, reminded him of the broken car with the body parts in the trunk. Edgar hated; mostly at him, but the feeling was just so general now.

If their relationship was a gradient, if they really did just come back to a kind of equilibrium after each argument, then this was a minor setback, a day when neither were at their best. Edgar had to say they_ both _weren't, because Scriabin didn't and wouldn't accept complete responsibility for his hostile behavior.

Not at their best, but maybe, tomorrow, back to some kind of uneasy peace. Maybe. Scriabin couldn't be mad forever.

Then again, he wasn't sure what "normal" for them really was. He knew what he wanted it to be, but he wasn't sure if that was really how their relationship fell, with nothing in the way.

Something had changed.

No. Edgar put his glasses to one side.

He just wished they had.

He wished everything would.

~~~

  
So desperate for an escape.

So desperate for an escape that he was willing, more than willing to force himself back, to kill his future and his present to try and reach his past. A retroactive homicide in hopes of erasing what he had done, what had forced his hand.

He wanted an escape. Perhaps if another option had made itself available, he wouldn't have focused so intensely on this one. If there was any other way. But no other option made itself so readily clear, and perhaps no other option would have offered the sleek oblivion he desired.

There are so many things one forgets over time. The countless minutes and seconds spent doing things that are useless or wholly forgettable. The few things that remain always become better, as is the way with everyone's personal history. The universally issued pair of rose-tinted glasses. If the memory belongs to you and you alone, then it's easy to alter it. To change those unpleasant details. To change it so you didn't trip over your shoes and bust up your face, someone tripped you. You weren't caught cheating, you were framed. You didn't fail that test, you barely passed. Depending on the fictions, breadth and scope, one creates to populate their pasts, there are varying amounts of lies and half-truths that can't be readily identified. Reality is never so subjective as through the lens of a personal autobiography.

In the end, there's no proofreader to show that this was all a lie, it wasn't really like this, it would never be like this, and yes, that day when you wore the wrong colors on School Colors Day actually did happen.

Everyone does it, everyone alters those memories you once had, even if you're not aware of it. It's easy to wear away the sharp edges we don't want to think about, to try and dull ancient pain that shouldn't hurt this long.

Time goes on and you forget that some bad things happened at all. It's easier that way, to remember something positive in the past because with all that could go on in the future, all the tribulations of the present, how can you be denied a happy past? Who would police your thoughts? It's beneficial in a way, to create pleasant fictions of an idyllic youth. A way to cope with damage that harms no one, not really.

Some go so far as to recreate their entire childhood piece by piece, perhaps unintentionally or perhaps not.

Adventures that we never had but wished we did. Nostalgia for things that never happened but should have. Underneath it all that intense feeling of being cheated, of the feeling that your childhood _should_ have been pleasant, it _should_ have been everything they told you it would be. Childhood should be that way, it should be something you'll always cherish and remember, full of adventures and games and clubs and tree houses and things that people so often talk about but never actually do. Minor dramas acted out that pale in comparison to what's portrayed on the media, but isn't that how it goes with everything?

Cheated. Cheated out of the carefree childhood that everyone assumes you had and for some reason unexplained--despite all pleas for an answer--it didn't happen. It didn't quite happen that way. Not to you. Cheated out of another thing, another so-called fact of life that everyone experiences and everyone can bond on. No one had a boring childhood. No one had problems coming up with imaginary friends. No one spent their time watching TV rather than imagining those grand fictions that children were supposedly so good at.

No one sat in their room at night trying to imagine, trying to picture this lush fantasy world that was at everyone's fingertips but theirs.

The intense sensation of being cheated out of a birthright, of being hurt without the ability to retaliate. In the face of such disappointment, who wouldn't go back and edit memories? Who wouldn't go back and change things? Who wouldn't create that imaginary friend, now that the mind is developed enough, and work them into all of your old childhood memories? Who wouldn't recreate the childhood they should have had, and work at making that childhood reality, if only for them?

He wanted an escape so badly because the future ahead of him led inexorably down to a fate he didn't want to imagine. Everything he feared, everything he had wished for so long wouldn't happen was going to happen, and he knew this. He had seen what was in store, he had seen Hell, and it had been promised to him, without a doubt. There was nothing he could do about it. Absolutely nothing he could do. The systematic destruction of himself and everything he once knew, and no. He had been cheated out of so much already. This wasn't fair.

For God's sake, this wasn't fair.

It wasn't even his decision in the first place.

There had to be a way out, to erase everything he had done. He wanted so desperately to find a place where none of this would matter, where he still had a choice, where he could pretend he still had a future, and he knew where he would find it. To go back to the beginning of all things with the most rudimentary and instinctual time machine possible.

A pleasant lie only shattered when the occasional photo showed the truth while he sorted through a drawer. A small boy with choppy uneven hair, a big nose, a knit yarn scarf, threadbare simple clothing with an eternally exhausted expression on his face. Edgar had yet to find one picture of himself as a child smiling.

But he remembered smiling. He was sure of that. It was all he had.

He wanted so desperately to get out but Scriabin had pointed out the logic and goddamn it all, that was something harder to fight than he thought. He knew what he was doing was wrong. He knew he couldn't do it forever. He knew it wouldn't help him. But God he wanted to do it. He wanted to do it so badly.

He fell asleep and dreamed.

His false childhood held so many things that everyone should have. The seasons that he only experienced now and again which everyone took for granted. Not every child got to play in the snow or watched the leaves turn color, but Edgar made sure that he did. Not everyone caught fireflies or went swimming in the summer, not everyone chased after the ice cream man or had a forest to play in when the days were hot and long and pointless, but he did. He had a big house with lots of rooms to hide in, lots of toys and clothes to play with, a sandbox. It was always brightly lit and it always smelled clean, and the days were always warm and bright.

That was how it should have been. That was how they said it would be.

He had a tree house. He made sure of that. He remembered as a child being jealous, being hatefully and truly jealous, of anyone he saw on television with a tree house. There was simply no way he could have made one, with his grandmother like she was and the lack of suitable trees or materials around...

But he had one now. Several adventures he had had up there, the kind that every kid should have. He had comic books up there that never got ruined by the weather, food that likewise stood the test of time. His grandmother even let him stay up there some nights when it was warm enough. That was a particularly pleasant fantasy, considering that if he wandered out of her sight for more than twenty minutes she'd call for him.

Make sure he was doing something constructive.

He never managed to overcome the guilt at the instinctual twinge of apprehension whenever he heard her voice. The way she said it, the way it always sounded so accusatory, bred in him this fear that whenever she called him, he had done something wrong. More often than not, he _had_ done something wrong, something he wasn't even aware of...

No, that wasn't what his childhood was anymore.

It was a warm and bright day and he was sitting in the sandbox he had long wished he had, playing with a set of toy soldiers that he never owned.

As he sat there and buried one of the toys beneath the sand, a gradual realization came to him that he tried as hard as he could to fight. The reality of the matter could not be denied though, not when for so long the reality of things had been the layout for his entire life. He wasn't used to avoiding reality, not like this.

God, as a child he felt more connected to reality than he did now. He had kept more things in mind, kept more responsibilities and worries and everyday concerns in mind than he was ever aware of, and now in that same body, that same time, it was hard to fight those instincts. The constant mental commands that forced him to think over everything he was doing, to consider the consequences, to make sure he had looked at every option before making a decision, and to make sure that the decision he made would be the least unpleasant. He had gone back just to escape this kind of constant responsibility, and he found that he had just run in circles. Even as a child he was responsible. Children weren't supposed to be responsible, children were supposed to be stupid and carefree, and even here he had been cheated.

He went through the motions, moving the soldiers this way and that, but everything still felt just as fake as before. All those times he had tried to play with the other kids, he had tried to join in games of pretend and found that he couldn't get past what he saw, the reality, he couldn't get past it all to really _play_ and they had abandoned him, cast him out for it. He could pretend and move the pieces about, but after all this time and all this editing and everything he had tried and wanted, he still didn't know how to play the game.

He felt an intense burst of rage that he normally would have suppressed or sublimated into something else but not this time. Even though at this age, he would be even more likely to keep his emotions under control--particularly with his grandmother who definitely wasn't here, he made sure of that--he forced himself to let it free. He wanted to be angry, he wanted to feel this.

The toy soldier in his hand was abruptly airborne, thrown with an angry cry as far away as Edgar could manage. Another angry incoherent sound and he pressed sandy palms to his closed eyes.

He just wanted to escape, he just wanted to not think about anything but it still didn't work, everything still didn't work. No matter where he went, things were still just as horrible and he still didn't fit in. God, he just wanted to fit in, for once he wanted to be at ease doing something, he wanted to know that he was _doing something right_-

"Cha, that was dumb."

Edgar pulled his hands from his eyes and looked up. Standing on the edge of his sandbox was Scriabin, and maybe he should have been more surprised than he was to see him there. He seemed just as natural here as Edgar was, and Edgar suspected that wasn't entirely his doing.

Scriabin was younger than him, which only made sense. Perhaps three or four years younger or so. His hands were rounder and his face a bit wider, the more angular lines that would define Edgar in adulthood undeveloped at such a young age. He was still wearing his striped shirt with the empty box and his black jeans, almost comical cut so short. No shoes and to no one's surprise, he still wore his ever-present pair of reflective glasses. Edgar couldn't exactly chide him for it, as he knew that the two cuts beneath his own eyes were present even going back this far. That said more than Edgar wanted to hear at the moment.

Scriabin's hair wasn't quite as long as it would be in the future--if he could really think of it as the future, considering--but it was much more scruffy and unkempt than Edgar's.

Scriabin could grow his hair long. Edgar hated him for that. He didn't get yelled at for it, and he didn't have to suffer from awkward painful haircuts given by someone whose vision was seriously beginning to fail. Edgar couldn't bring that up with her though. There were so many things he could never talk about with her.

One long strand near Scriabin's face was tied with a red bit of yarn. Edgar found that he could remember exactly where that bit of yarn had come from, the memory coming to him easily and naturally.

Scriabin had been planning on rifling through his grandmother's dresser while she was asleep, and Edgar had fervently asked him not to. Scriabin eventually talked him into it, although in retrospect Edgar wasn't sure how. He remembered being terrified that his grandmother would wake up as they snuck into her room, remembered standing near Scriabin and shifting from foot to foot, eager to get this over with. Scriabin had poked around in the drawer with all the care and stealth of some kind of wild elephant and it wouldn't surprise Edgar that he was being intentionally noisy to deliberately get them in trouble. That wasn't unusual. Eventually Scriabin had grabbed a bit of yarn as "proof" that he had braved these unknown waters, had so flagrantly disregarded the rules of not touching other people's things, and the two of them had snuck out again.

Fiction after fiction, the wished-for scenarios and adventures, and it was hard to tell reality from fantasy, particularly with Scriabin right here, looking just as he had in every memory that Edgar must have constructed. That only made sense. He couldn't have always been here, even if-

Scriabin's voice was almost laughably high, although it wasn't like Edgar could best him in that department at the moment. Edgar had made quite sure that if he was going to visit his past, it would be before adolescence. No one wants to relive adolescence. No matter what Scriabin said, he wasn't that much of a masochist.

"Nice work, by the way."

"What are you doing here?" Edgar stared at him. "You shouldn't be here."

"Since when could you tell me where to be?" Scriabin stepped into the sandbox and sat across from Edgar. He picked up one of the toy soldiers. "I don't listen to you."

"No, what are you doing here? Why are you here? Are you going to...do you have to? I just want to...I just want to pretend for a while."

"Don't think I know that? Stupid." Scriabin moved the toy soldier towards Edgar with small jerky motions. "Guess what, you took me along for the ride again. Big surprise. It's not the first time."

"I..." Edgar picked up one of the little plastic figures. "I didn't want you to come here. I didn't mean for you to come with me."

"Well, duh." Scriabin shrugged. "I know you didn't. But here I am."

"What are you going to do?"

"I didn't have anything planned." Scriabin poked at Edgar's toy with his soldier's bayonet. "It's funny how you always wanted an imaginary friend, and tadah! Here I am."

There was a silence as Scriabin kept poking Edgar's small toy with his own. Silence and a bird chirped somewhere once. With a motion that shocked both of them, Edgar threw the toy soldier off in the same direction to join his missing compatriot. Scriabin's eyes followed the progress of the soldier and Edgar found he was speaking without thinking.

Screaming, actually, would have been more accurate.

"I only ask for one thing, I only ask for one thing, just one thing in my life that I can make my own, that I can completely fucking own for once, just one thing that I don't have to account to anyone for and then YOU show up and, and-!" Edgar shivered violently at the obscenity that slipped by his lips, that broke the illusion even further. "I only want, I want something God I want something that I _should_ have had God is that so wrong, is that such a fucking impossible thing to ask for, that I should have one thing, that I can have one moment to _myself_, that I can have one thing that I can look back on and feel happy about without feeling guilty god_DAMN IT_ Scriabin why are you _HERE_!?"

Edgar's throat felt raw by the time he finished shrieking, and he wasn't even aware of how loud he had really become. He wasn't used to shouting, raising his voice. In reality his grandmother would have stopped him by the second word, but she _wasn't here, goddamn it_. He breathed heavily as he glared at Scriabin and he could feel his eyes stinging. That was perfect, that was just great, of course he would start crying now. Why not. That'd be the perfect icing on this cake. That would be just fantastic.

Scriabin stared at him with a look of complete and total surprise. Edgar stared back, waiting for the eventual smirk he knew would come.

Instead, there was a moment where Scriabin almost looked hurt somehow, if that was even possible, then that quickly faded into a mask of emotionlessness that Edgar recognized all too well.

"You brought me here."

"NO!" Edgar clenched his hands in his uneven hair and shut his eyes tight. "You're not supposed to BE here, this is MINE! This is _mine_ for God's sake, you can't judge me for this, you can't judge me for this GO AWAY!"

A long pause, and Scriabin looked down. Couldn't meet his eyes anymore, apparently. He couldn't say for sure, him and those glasses-

"Edgar..." His voice was quiet. "What makes you think I'd hurt you here?"

"You ask me that..." Edgar found himself snarling, his lip curling and the urge to bite and tear rising strong and insistent. He could feel his entire body shaking, his fists clenching so tightly he could feel his skin breaking, and more than that he could _feel_, he could feel the anger. It was directionless, general, all-encompassing rage that he had wished to express to so many people at so many times but never could because it would never pay off, it would never be worth it. He never had enough power to safely express that anger, all those emotions bottled up and now here, there was no one. There was no one here except him and the seven year old boy in front of him, staring at him with that insufferable confused expression. "You ask me that as if you've never hurt me before, as if you're innocent in this entire thing. And you wonder why I'm here."

Scriabin tilted his head slightly. "I didn't say that. Or ask that."

"How dare you play innocent with me, how dare you act is if all you want to do is interact with me! After everything you've done, everything you said to me today, how dare you!" He was screaming again, his voice shrill and sharp and out of his control, and it tore through his chest in a way that made the stinging in his eyes worse. "How dare you come here! How dare you think you belong here!"

Scriabin apparently couldn't think of a response. He raised a hand to adjust his glasses and that was it. Edgar saw himself in the lenses for the last time.

"Take those glasses off."

Scriabin paused for a moment. Then he smirked, just like Edgar knew he would.

"I can't."

Edgar threw himself at Scriabin, a mad screaming flailing mass and Scriabin managed a short strangled gasp of surprise before he hit the ground.

Edgar lashed out as hard and as quickly as possible, relishing the sound of each fist's collision and the gasp or grunt that followed. So much hatred coursed through him, so much pure rage at the world and what it had done to him, at everything he had been denied, at the lie that he had lived his life by, at the pure unfairness of his situation, and the fact that this kind of anger should have been his by all rights and only now had he found what he should have known for years.

Scriabin was not about to let Edgar get away with this uncontested, and he scratched and hit as best he could. He was still at a disadvantage, considering his size, but a small boy can be surprisingly ferocious when cornered and Scriabin definitely had no other options at this point. Rolling and yelling on the grass, both beyond coherent words. Edgar felt his nose bleeding, knew he bit his lip and it didn't matter.

He had often listed the consequences of him lashing out, he had thought and worried about what he would say, how his grandmother would react, how childish it would be if he gave in and actually did start a fight. He wasn't skilled, he didn't know what he was doing, he would lose. There were so many individual thoughts and concerns that kept him in check, and now none of it mattered.

He never had a fight as a child, and when he realized this he sank his teeth into Scriabin's shoulder. Scriabin gave an angry howl and pushed him away, nails scratching across his face and catching on those scars beneath his eyes. A fist thudded into Edgar's chest, winded him for a few seconds but he recovered because he had to, he wasn't going to stop now. He raised a fist and Scriabin pushed his arm away quickly, grabbed his shirt and he was choking him, cutting off his air. He struggled, hit, his shirt slipped from Scriabin's grip, felt his breath rasp back into his lungs with a vague sense of gratefulness overshadowed by his rage.

Edgar wasn't in the state of mind to be listening to himself, but while coherent thought eluded him, his vocal cords worked without his knowledge. Snarls and growls, hissing breaths and hard panting noises, sharp cries of pain and anger when struck in a way that stung enough to stop him. Even though the sounds he made were marked by undeveloped vocal cords, moved higher on the auditory range than he would have liked, the meaning behind them was not diluted in the least.

Edgar grabbed his shirt, raised Scriabin off the ground just enough to shove him back down again, watch his head hit the grass with a short grunt. The desire to just keep going, to keep pounding Scriabin's head against the ground until he stopped moving, was all that he could think of, even if he couldn't currently put it into words. Another thud against the ground, a strangled gasp and Scriabin raised his arms and broke Edgar's hold, gained enough leverage to send the two rolling once again.

Scriabin was familiar with rage, but the intensity of the emotion driving Edgar was scaring him and it showed on his face. Edgar was acting on pure instinct, the drive to hurt someone else, and he would obey that drive as long as he had the strength to fight.

Hands sliding across fabric and sweaty skin. Edgar struggled to get hold of Scriabin's neck but instead settled for his shirt again. Scriabin tried to breathe as Edgar began shaking him as hard and as fast as he could. Edgar's attention focused on keeping his arms moving, Scriabin found the precious few seconds to pull one fist back. A sharp blow to the face and Edgar fell to one side, his grip forgotten. Both boys panted hard, bleeding from several places, and as Edgar pushed himself back up with shaking arms, they stared at each other warily.

His glasses were gone. Edgar hadn't even noticed while he was fighting.

"What do you want to see, Edgar?" One of Scriabin's eyes was swollen shut. "What does it matter to you?"

"Shut up!"

His other eye became dark rimmed, small lines and wrinkles matching the killer that was the source of this, of everything. "What do you want to see? You've taken my last piece of privacy from me. What do you want now?" One moment the eye was missing entirely, just a black hole where it should have been, another and his eyelids were stitched shut, black and red, and then another and his eye was open and intact and it matched Edgar's perfectly. "Is this it? It doesn't matter, does it?"

Some part of Edgar wanted to leap back and start the battle anew, keep fighting until he couldn't move anymore. Consumed with the thought of revenge, eternal revenge until the whole thing was finally and truly over, but another part of him was beginning to reassert itself, to remind him of what exactly he had done.

It took a few minutes of silence before he spoke again.

"I hate you so much." Edgar's voice squeaked and he hated himself for it.

"Heh." Scriabin brushed a hand across his mouth, stared at the streak of blood. "That's pretty obvious."

That part of him always won in the end. Edgar turned away and curled up on his side, hugging his shoulders. Now that the adrenaline was beginning to wear off, the pain of his wounds was beginning to surface along with the regret he always knew would follow.

"This is _my_ place." He wished his voice didn't shake so much. "I wanted to escape here."

Scriabin was silent for a while. Edgar could feel his heart beating in his ears and it was giving him a headache, although that could have been all the blunt force trauma.

He heard the sound of grass moving and then felt Scriabin sit down near his back.

"What makes you think I don't want to escape myself sometimes?"

"I just want to spend some time by myself...I want to be alone." Edgar put his hands over his ears which he found surprisingly hot to the touch. He wished he had his glasses, but he was sure they were broken beyond repair, wherever they had fallen.

Scriabin leaned back against him. The contact reminded Edgar of some particularly nasty bruises along his shoulders and back that flared back to life, but he didn't have the energy to move away. "I just wanted to relax myself. I guess you dragged me in here. Maybe you wanted someone to play with. It's more fun to play with two people."

"I can't believe you..." So tired of it, so tired of everything. "You've lied to me...lied to me about everything...I just want to stop hurting for a while. Go away."

"You don't have to believe me." Scriabin gave a wet cough. "Doesn't matter to me. I don't have anything better to do."

A long silence. That bird chirped again. Edgar remembered in the back of his mind where reality was that the sound of birds chirping had never struck him as pleasant, and he had often cursed them when they had woken him on a Saturday morning. Apparently even his desire for everything everyone always talked about couldn't make a bird sound pleasant.

"C'mon." Scriabin shook his shoulder gently. "Can you believe what we just did? Don't sulk. This is great. I feel great. Don't you? I think we accomplished something."

"I didn't accomplish anything." Edgar turned over to look at Scriabin and ended up half in his lap. "I punched you in the face."

"True." Scriabin raised a hand to push up nonexistent glasses then caught himself. He smiled. "Are you sure that's not an accomplishment?"

Edgar stared at him for a few seconds. Along with the swollen eye, Scriabin's lip was split and bleeding down his chin. Bruises were beginning to darken around his face, he was covered with dirt, and his ears looked red. Several angry pink and yellow lines crisscrossed across his cheeks, shallow scratch marks that'd vanish in a few minutes. And yet, in spite of everything they had done, that bit of red yarn remained in place, although there were a number of grass clippings now caught in his hair.

"You're such a jerk."

Scriabin smiled back at him in that infuriating familiar way, a little lopsided considering that his lip was beginning to swell, and Edgar sighed. His head hurt. No wonder he'd never done this before.

Scriabin reached out and brushed grubby fingers across a tender area spreading from the corner of Edgar's mouth that would no doubt quickly develop into a bruise. Edgar moved his head away, although it wasn't quickly or with any kind of real threat. Just the general indication that he didn't feel like being touched at the moment.

He caught sight of something red on the tips of Scriabin's fingers.

"We should've done this a long time ago."

Edgar didn't say anything. His head was still resting in Scriabin's lap, and he was trying his hardest at that point to erase everything in favor of the cloud-dotted sky above him. Why he came here. He could taste the iron of blood in his mouth, and hoped he hadn't lost a tooth or something.

"Don't you think? Not healthy to keep things bottled up inside." His speech pattern was becoming simpler, perhaps in an effort to match the body he was using.

Participating in the fantasy.

"Did you really come here to play with me?" Edgar knew he wouldn't get a truthful answer. He just felt like he had to say something, and nothing that Scriabin had said seemed like an appealing place to start.

"Sure. I think so. I didn't plan to come here, after all. You wanted me here for some reason or another."

"I don't know why I would."

"Well..." Scriabin leaned forward a little and his back popped. "We had a lot of bad feelings going on between us earlier today. Maybe you did want to fight me or something."

"Pff." Edgar didn't feel like finding a logical argument for the statement. If Scriabin altered his speech pattern, then Edgar could do it too. "That's dumb."

"Heh, maybe."

A short pause and Edgar's arm twitched, brushed against Scriabin's hip. Scriabin leaned back and looked up at the sky, and when Edgar looked up at his neck, he found a faint line running down his throat. Some kind of scar, although he couldn't guess the source.

"What games do you know how to play anyway?" Edgar found his attention captured by Scriabin's uncovered eyes. Even if he was just changing his form to mess with him, it was still such a change to be able to see them at all. Same color as his own. If they were in a different state of mind he was sure Scriabin would find some way to work that against him, even if it wasn't his fault.

"I know what you know." Scriabin shrugged.

"Then why couldn't I..." Edgar raised one hand and gestured vaguely where the two soldiers had taken their last flight.

"This isn't the place for it, but far be it for me to deny you answers when you ask." The way he spoke now seemed incongruous with his childlike voice. "You don't know how to play Soldiers."

"But-"

"No, you don't know how. You can pretend you do, but that doesn't make it so." A phrase that was becoming more and more common between them. Scriabin pointed at him. "If you really want to escape here, think of a game you really did play, something that you really know."

"Why are you doing this?" Edgar's face hurt when he talked. He was going to regret that fight for a while. "Why are you helping me like this?"

"Like I said..." Scriabin shrugged again. "Sometimes I want to relax too. You know, those memories...the ones with me in them..."

Edgar sighed and let the sound resonate through his throat. He didn't know Scriabin knew...he resigned himself to the chastising he knew would be inevitable. "What about them?"

Scriabin smiled at this tone in a way that still pricked a part of Edgar's pride, but not enough to really galvanize any emotion into action. "They're not that bad."

"What?"

"I mean...you want to be creative, right?" Scriabin gestured at the sky vaguely, and Edgar watched his hands. Some of his nails were broken and he could see a dark mark spreading beneath one of them. Probably from when he had rolled over his hand at one point. "Want to make up stuff like other kids did. Like you never could, 'cause she was always about how things really were. It's hard to make things up when everyone around you won't let you, y'know. You shouldn't blame yourself for that as much as you do."

"Ha. Since when do you take my side?"

"I take it whenever it serves my argument." A smirk, and it looked bizarrely out of place on his young features. "But some of the stuff you made up about us, it's pretty neat."

"Most of it's from TV shows I saw..." Edgar looked up and could see that scar running down Scriabin's neck again. It was an old one, long faded to white, one that ran directly down his Adam's apple, down to the hollow of his neck and almost up to his chin. Where on earth did that come from?

"Not all of it. I do like what you came up with though." Scriabin moved again, and the scar slipped from view. "The Vargas brothers, wasn't it?"

Edgar considered for a moment if he shouldn't participate, if the potential dangers of following Scriabin down this train of thought outweighed the positives, then decided to stop caring. "Yeah."

"The careful older brother and his rebellious younger sibling. Heh. I like how I was always the one who got you into trouble."

"What, because that way I don't take responsibility?"

"C'mon, Edgar. We had something for a minute there." Scriabin intended to give him a disapproving look, but instead it looked like he was pouting, and that expression somehow seemed completely normal. "I don't want depth right now any more than you do, okay?"

Edgar didn't trust him still. Closed his eyes a bit and he knew he never would. Stop caring about it. "Whatever."

"But you know, you did create these adventures for us...for the two of us. Always in the back of your mind, just..." Scriabin fingered the bit of yarn that held his hair. "I mean...you changed so much just to work me in here. I have my own clothes, my own toys, I have my own rules..."

"You always got away with everything." Edgar wasn't speaking directly to him. "You always managed to get away with everything. I never understood it, that I got blamed so often for what you did or what was originally your idea. I always had to be the responsible one, it was always my fault for not looking out for my younger brother, it was always..."

Scriabin sighed, and he reached down and touched Edgar's forehead. At the sensation Edgar realized that there was a large cut there that immediately began to sting at being discovered. Scriabin moved his hand, touched a chunk of badly cut hair.

"Recreating yourself, the childhood you wish you had...and I'm here." Scriabin looked down at him, and the two stared at each other. "You want me here."

"Wouldn't it have been different that way?" Edgar didn't want to think too hard about this but he knew he was anyway. "So many things could have been different if I wasn't always alone..."

"And you think I'd take this away from you." Scriabin laughed in much the same way Edgar had earlier. "You think I'd take away something like this? Your real and honest validation of my existence? The fact that you _want_ me here? I wouldn't take that from you."

"You want it too."

Scriabin shrugged. "Do you remember when I stole this bit of yarn?"

Avoiding the issue. Easy to recognize but again, that's not what this was about. Edgar nodded.

"Hmm, something else...do you remember when we snuck out that one night to see if we could find the-" Scriabin started laughing and had to take a few seconds to compose himself. "The night goblins?"

"I remember that!" Edgar found himself smiling and for a few seconds, it felt real. "I remember that, I told you that story because you wouldn't stay out of my stuff, I told you that the night goblins would come and cut off all your hair, and you started crying and wouldn't stop. Granma freaked out about it, told me I shouldn't tell you such stories when you were so 'impressionable.' You were so scared..." It all seemed so real. "You were so scared you couldn't sleep, and eventually I had to show you that they weren't real. We snuck out..."

"'Cause you told me they lived in the backyard near the pond. You always wanted a pond." Scriabin snickered softly. "God, how gullible was I. I waited until you pulled up every rock until I was satisfied."

"Night goblins live under rocks, I almost forgot." Edgar laughed at the thought, and eventually the sound faded away and there was a moment of silence.

Contemplation and that bird chirped again.

"There's so much I wish we had," Scriabin mumbled. "There's so much I wish I had."

"Ah, you said 'we' first." Edgar wasn't willing to go back this quickly. "Do you remember Halloween?"

A pause, and Scriabin gave him a sad smile. "I think I do. Why don't you refresh my memory?"

There was a wound that had never healed, resentment that had lingered in the back of Edgar's mind every time that time of year came around. How many times had he been forced to sit at the lunch table and listen to how much candy everyone got and what kind and trade you for this one, and he'd just stare.

_You can't go out, Edgar, you have to help me clean up the house. Your uncle said he was going to come by tonight, and I want the house to look nice. You've got to stay home tonight, this might be the only time you'll see him for a long time._

He never did show up.

All for nothing.

Still felt bitter about it, even after all this time. The very next year his grandmother had decreed that he was "too old" to go out asking for candy, and there was another grand childhood tradition that had been ripped from him. He was in no position to protest, and what could he say?

He should have gone Trick-or-Treating with everyone else.

He should have had that, if nothing else. He should have at least had that.

He felt Scriabin run a hand gently through his uneven hair, and Edgar struggled with his memories.

"I can't remember what I was dressed as."

Scriabin stared at him for a few seconds, then he gave him a crooked smile. "I remember what I was dressed as. I was a ninja."

"A ninja?" Edgar stared at him for a few seconds, and then he could visualize it, could see the young boy all dressed in black with his cardboard shurikens and absolutely no knowledge of the culture he was borrowing from. "Ha ha, I remember. I was...I was a pirate."

"Pirates and ninjas." Scriabin's smile grew wider. "I've heard they're immortal enemies."

"Then that makes sense then, doesn't it?" Edgar imagined, worked out the details that would add the realism. "I had the floppy hat and everything. A little bag of chocolate coins and a sword and...everything."

"I got more candy than you."

Both working so hard, working so hard to sustain this joint illusion. Edgar knew why he was doing it. You escape to avoid reality, and his childhood was nothing but reality, and he wasn't going back to that. Not if he could help it.

And Scriabin...

"No you didn't."

"Yes I did. Remember? It came down to those three pieces of that cheap candy no one ever eats, but I still beat you."

"You did not. You stole them from me."

"Did not."

"Did too."

"Heh, didn't Granma have to get involved?"

"Yeah, after you stole my candy!" He wasn't sure if his indignant tone was real, but it sounded good enough.

Scriabin's smile again got that somewhat sad tinge, and he looked back up at the sky. "I did not."

There it was again, that thin line running down his throat. Edgar raised a hand and touched it gently, and Scriabin jerked in surprise.

"Where'd that come from? You've never had it before."

"Don't you remem-" Scriabin cut himself off, then looked remarkably uncomfortable. "That's right..."

"What?"

"Huh, not proud of myself for this one. I didn't think you'd notice. Well..." Scriabin reached up a hand himself and touched the mark. "You know...this is my childhood too. We share so much. So..."

"So you...you...remember something?" He couldn't break what they had accomplished so far, he had to work with their scripts, the lines and he couldn't break it, he almost had it now. "Something happened when I wasn't there?"

He hesitated for a moment, and when he spoke he still sounded uncomfortable. "Yeah..."

"What happened?" Edgar didn't hide the fascination in his voice, and he was thankful that at the moment, they weren't reading too much into this. He was positive that Scriabin felt the same way.

"Well..." Scriabin didn't look at him. "It's kind of embarrassing..."

"C'mon."

"I was hanging out in the tree house...you know, just screwing around and everything..." Scriabin sounded really uncomfortable telling the story. That was something Edgar had never heard before. "And there was nail poking out of the wood at some part, I dunno, I wasn't paying attention. I banged it down with a rock afterwards anyway, but..."

"Uh huh..."

"So I was up there with that coat, you know-"

"The one Granma tells you never to touch!?" Edgar sounded a bit more emotional while saying that than he should have, considering, and he felt a twinge of something that might have been pride. It was some positive emotion that flickered too fast to be given a name. "Scriabin!"

"She didn't find out, okay?" Scriabin hissed and looked around. "I just really like that coat."

"You're not supposed to touch that, it's my dad's coat, Granma said she'd kill you if she found you playing with it again-"

"Look, do you want to hear this story or not?"

Edgar reluctantly swallowed his concern and returned to listening. Then he realized that he was actually, seriously concerned over something that never really...

"So I was playing with that coat, and I went to go get something, and I tripped on the edge of it, and I ended up scratching my neck on the nail."

"Scratching?"

"Okay, it was pretty deep." Scriabin rolled his eyes. "Granma ran me to the hospital pretty quick after that-"

"Ha, did she find out you were playing in that coat?"

"No, thank you." Scriabin sounded offended. "I took it off before I went inside."

"Jeez, you walked that far with your neck like that?"

"It wasn't that bad. It didn't do any real damage. But I did have to have to wear this dorky neck bandage for like a week."

"Heh." Edgar smiled to himself. "Now that you mention it, I do remember you with that. That was a long time ago..."

"Yeah..." A pause, and Scriabin gave a heavy sigh. "A real long time ago..."

The two of them stared at the sky, and the bird was silent this time. Scriabin still had his fingers in Edgar's hair.

"Do you think there's anything wrong with this?" Walking the edge of breaking the illusion they had created, but he had to ask. "I mean...no one's getting hurt. Changing things...no one's hurt. No one else has to know."

"I never said there was anything wrong with this." Another sigh. "It's just not good to do it for a long time."

"How much longer do you think we should stay here, then?"

"You're dreaming, my dear b-..." Scriabin cut himself off, then he laughed. "I can't really say that here, can I? But you're dreaming, Edgar, and that means we can stay until you wake up."

Stared up at the sky, and Scriabin idly played with his hair.

"You know...it's weird." Edgar again found himself talking without really thinking about it first. "I thought that really...if I kept this to myself, you know...kept these...changes to myself...that'd make them more real, 'cause no one could ever prove them wrong. They wouldn't know. But then..."

Scriabin tilted his head at him slightly.

"But then..." Edgar wasn't sure if he should say this. The two of them were teetering on the edge of two realities. Edgar knew the one that he wanted to keep real, the one that he was trying to stay in, but the question of whether or not Scriabin could resist the temptation...if the actual reality that faced them both, if the actual facts of their relationship, would override this illusion and maybe this would have consequences, real consequences. Edgar wasn't sure if he could say this because what if the real Scriabin came and used this later, what if how things really were came and saw what they were playing at, and then everything was ruined.

He had to...

He had to trust him.

"What?" Scriabin sounded genuinely interested, and Edgar found his thoughts caught up again in that eternal battle of weighing the pros and the cons, whether or not this would really end up being a good decision, and my God, had he ever been spontaneous in his entire life? This wouldn't be the best time to start but again that anger, the anger that found an easy home here rose again and he wanted to be spontaneous. He wanted to make a stupid decision because that's what kids did and that was what he was now. That's what he wanted.

"It's like...with you here, with you...agreeing with me." Scriabin's hand stopped moving. "Working with me...talking with you about it. It kind of...validates it. It makes the entire thing that much more real. More real than if I were alone."

"I could bring up something that Jesus said..." Scriabin's voice had several emotions in it that Edgar couldn't identify. He paused, and his fingers curled in his hair. "But I can't remember it now. You always paid more attention when she was reading to us than I did."

That hesitant barrier remained intact, and even if Edgar didn't exactly know why, he knew that he was safe for now.

"You mean, that thing about how it only needs two people to pray and be heard? Something like that."

"Yeah." Scriabin sighed again. "Something like that. I can't remember now. It's hard to think."

"Yeah...I've noticed that...hey...do you remember when you got in trouble?"

"Ha ha, which time? And where?" Scriabin smiled rakishly, and from the change in his posture Edgar could tell this would be a fantasy he would enjoy embellishing. "That was something of my specialty."

"I know that." Edgar found himself intensely curious about what Scriabin could come up with. As a child he had rarely gotten into trouble and while he had been lectured, he hesitated to call that a real punishment for anything. How far would he go? How much would he change? "How about something here at home?"

"Hmm." Scriabin put a hand on his chin and his thoughtful expression looked remarkably silly for a seven year old. Edgar smiled. "Let's see...I didn't get caught for stealing this bit of yarn...and she didn't yell at me for getting my neck all cut up, 'cause that wasn't my fault..."

"And for once I wasn't involved, so it wasn't my fault either."

"Hmm." Another pondering look. "Let's see...do you remember...when I took one of those skeins of yarn that Gran keeps lying around, and I decided to make our entire room a huge spider web? So I looped all this yarn everywhere, all over the chairs and beds and tables and doorknobs until you couldn't go _any_where unless you were crawling." A smile and Edgar wondered for a moment that if Scriabin did have a creative streak in him, how could that be expressed? How else could he express it when he had no body of his own? Work to create a past, a life that he never and would never have, maybe even this whole time...

Reality kept trying to intrude and Edgar had to stop letting it in. He tried to listen. "I do remember that, actually. You managed to talk me into helping you with that, too."

"Well, I couldn't reach the lamp by myself. You're taller than me. But do you remember when she came home and called for us, and we couldn't get out fast enough cause it was just everywhere?"

"She did always freak out if you didn't come to her right away..."

"Right. So up she comes storming up the stairs, you can hear her thumping along and she opens the door to our room and the look on her face was just priceless." At the thought of shocking Edgar's grandmother, the source for so many minor things that still affected Edgar in the present, so many associations and so much guilt, Scriabin smiled. Enjoying the small revenges, even if no one else would know.

"Haha, I remember you said something to her and she just completely lost it." Edgar could picture it, the joint room shared by two brothers with the separated toys, the clothes strewn everywhere and half-started games on the floor, and across everything the red yarn that always lurked in the back of his mind and, Edgar suspected, Scriabin's as well. The two boys sitting in the midst of it all, and he could see Scriabin's arm immediately snap out to point at him. "What did you say?"

A pause as Scriabin considered it. The smile on his face indicated that he enjoyed the challenge. "I think it was something like 'is it possible to turn into a spider when you turn seven? 'Cause I think I'm doing pretty well so far.'"

The two of them laughed for a few seconds at the thought, Edgar in particular at the image of someone rebelling, even in such a minor way, to one of the most omnipresent authority figures in his life.

"But yeah...she didn't much care for that." Scriabin looked fairly contented and he was still playing with Edgar's hair.

"Heh, I remember that when she managed to get you out of there and she was dragging you off, you still tried to pin it on me." Edgar found himself smiling at the look on his counterpart's face. It was so easy to pretend that they really were brothers, that their connection could be so blissfully simple. "Too bad you gave her that line first, I think that made her less inclined to be lenient with you."

"Yeah, I probably should have just blamed you first. That always did work." A smirk. "But yeah, jeez. I didn't hear the end of that for weeks. The huge lecture on wasting materials and how tight money was, and how we couldn't afford to be doing such silly things and blah blah blah waste of time. Didn't she tell me to clean it all up myself?"

"Yeah, and I'm pretty sure you were supposed to clean up the rest of the house for a while as well. I did help clean up the room though, even though I wasn't supposed to."

Scriabin looked down at him. "Yeah you did..."

A quiet moment to think about that, and then Edgar didn't want silence. "What about school?"

"Heh." Scriabin again looked thoughtful. "Let's see...it was always harder to pin things on you there, since we were in different classrooms..."

"That was a relief at least."

"Let's see...ah, I remember something. Do you recall that one boy, Corey something, I can't remember his last name."

"Yeah I do. Wasn't he always bugging us?"

"Yeah, but you know. He was a jerk. Either way, I remember this one time he brought this really nice electronic thing to school...it was like a notepad or something, I can't remember exactly...but he was showing it off to people, and he was poking at us, saying we could never have anything like that."

Edgar's eyes narrowed. "I do remember that."

"That made me so angry...I just couldn't stand it anymore. I don't think you were watching 'cause you probably would have stopped me." A lopsided smile and he continued, now caught up in the story. "So when he wasn't watching, I grabbed it really quick and shoved it in my bag."

"You didn't."

"I did. And I went to class. I was planning on giving it back to him at some point, really, but I guess he didn't take it that way. So I'm sitting there, and then Corey comes in all tears and wailing with a teacher in tow, which is no good no matter which way you look at it, and then his teacher and my teacher got to talking, and I _knew_ this was about me."

Edgar winced. "Yeah, I'd imagine."

"And so they come over to me, and they say 'We understand that you have something of Corey's?', and I wasn't sure what to do. So I say I didn't remember taking anything of his, and then Corey says that I was the only one who'd have motivation for taking it and he saw me take it no less, and he was sure that it was in my bag. So my teacher tells me to go look in there for it and give it to him, and I tell her that I didn't have it, and she says that she'd look herself, and the last thing you want is a teacher looking through your things, so I say I'll look and see if I could find it."

"Jeez." Edgar could not see this ending well at all.

"Now, there was a few minutes before recess, and I thought that maybe if I could prolong the whole thing a few minutes, that way everyone would leave and no one would really know that I took it. Everyone's eyes were on me and you know kids live for that. So I'm looking and looking, and I've gone over the same few binders five times and they're on to me at this point. So I pull the thing out. I put on my best 'how did that get here?' voice but they weren't buying it."

"So what happened?"

"They took me out to go talk to the teachers and principal of course. I think a note got sent home too...so I had to get lectured like five or six times for the same thing, and it wasn't like I was really stealing it, I just wanted to mess with him for making fun of us."

He put himself in such hopeless situations and then the punishments for his behavior seemed so lenient. Unjustified...

Stop thinking about it...

"Yeah..."

"I was always the one starting fights..." Caught up in the fictitious past he was weaving. "Every time anyone started to mess with us, I was always the one who threw the first punch."

"You always were aggressive."

"Well, you never were." Scriabin tugged at his hair slightly. "One of us has to be, or else everyone would just walk all over us."

"You always were..."

"I just couldn't stand it when people would make fun of you. Or of us. It just drove me crazy. I hated it. And you'd never get angry. You never got angry when I thought you should, so I got angry instead. I never regretted it though. And besides, you normally got the blame anyway."

"I still don't know how that works out. How on earth did it all keep getting traced back to me?"

Scriabin shrugged and smiled.

A pause.

"It's harder to keep depth out of this than I thought." Scriabin shook his head. "I don't want these stories to become metaphors but..."

"It doesn't matter...they're still better than..."

"Pretend..."

"You know, you're not bad at this yourself."

Scriabin snorted, but Edgar had a feeling that he was flattered in some strange way.

A dark mark flitted across the sky, a bird that went by too quickly for any further identification. The clouds moved with a speed that seemed inappropriate for the strength of the breeze, but minor details could lapse here.

"This is really..." He was trying not to think of the reality of things, trying but when you try not to think about something it becomes the only thing that comes to mind. "This is really...I mean, the fact that we can't interact like this...that we can't be like this, we can't be friends like this without lying...without lying about everything. I mean, all this familiarity between us feels so real, it feels like it could be real, but unless we recreate each other entirely, it'll never be possible...for us to talk civilly, relate in any kind of way, we have to lie so fervently about so much..."

Scriabin just listened. Edgar expected him to respond and at his silence, he pressed his hands to his eyes and found his teeth gritted together tightly. "God, this is all so messed up. There's something...I mean, you're not my...and I'm acting, I want...God, there's something wrong with me."

He moved his hands and looked at Scriabin, who just stared back with his eyes that matched Edgar's perfectly.

Another silence, then Scriabin did speak.

"What?" The amusement was gone. His expression matched a tone that Edgar was intimately familiar with. "Do you expect me to argue with you?"

Edgar stared a little longer, then sighed.

"I think that, of all people..." He could tell that Scriabin wanted to sound angrier. "I would know that there's something wrong with you."

"Always with this mental open-book..." Edgar waved a hand, not wanting to push the damage further with another obscenity.

"The fact that I am here at all," his words came haltingly and with great effort, "is a fairly good indication that there is something wrong with you. Otherwise, I wouldn't have come into being...not even at the most generous application of the word could this be considered normal..." Edgar could hear him detaching from what he was saying, could anticipate the longer words that would require Scriabin's attention, shift focus from emotion to thought. For all his supposed hatred of Edgar's detachment, he resorted to it just as readily when things got too emotionally intense. "I...as in my existence here...that could never be considered normal, any sign of healthy adjustment..."

"You're more like the symptom of a sickness, or the consequence of damage..."

He shouldn't have said that. He was just following Scriabin's train of thought and it didn't occur to him, it again slipped by him that the presence in his mind was more than an object, but more importantly, wanted to be considered, by him, as more than an object. That was why he had done this, why he had gone along with Edgar with this entire charade. That was why he had done it and without even thinking about it, Edgar had ruined it. His illusion for himself may last a little longer, but he had ruined it for Scriabin.

He expected him to do it, and in a way he felt that he deserved it. Scriabin's eyes narrowed, pain obvious on a child's features, and he pulled back one clenched fist. Edgar didn't move away, although he did close his eyes.

The punch to the side of his head left him seeing stars and there was an intense flash of blackness before he could see again. Searing pain burned through what felt like his brain. When he could open his eyes and see again, Scriabin's face still hovered above his own, although the sky above had darkened slightly.

"You..." Scriabin couldn't find words that could express what his fist hadn't. He trembled.

Edgar had to take a few seconds to get his mouth to work properly. "That was a stupid thing to say."

"Yeah. Yeah it was." In the end, that spoke more of his hatred than a sarcastic jibe ever could have.

"I'm sorry."

"You think-"

"No, I know you won't accept it." It felt like the back of his eyes were burning. God Scriabin could punch hard. "But I have to say it."

Scriabin crossed his arms and looked away.

"This whole thing was...it's as important for you as it is for me. I keep...forgetting that." He kept forgetting that Scriabin could hurt him, some cynical part of him said, and he ignored it. "It's not fair."

Scriabin made a growling sound, apparently either not willing to talk to Edgar anymore or at a loss for words. Considering how eloquent Scriabin tended to be, Edgar was willing to bet it was the former.

"I don't want...I don't want a childhood without..." Edgar closed his eyes and wished his head would stop hurting. If this was a dream, why did it hurt so much? "I don't want a childhood without you."

A scoffing sound, but he still wouldn't speak.

"I mean, I could create everything...with just me instead, but when it would come down to friends, or playing games with people, or talking, or adventures...I like the ones with you in them the most. I like having a brother. I like not being alone."

"And in the end..." Scriabin's voice was dark and as low as he could manage. "In the end, that's what I'm here for, isn't it? This isn't about me. I'm just a prop for your fantasies. Discarded whenever you like-" A strangled angry noise and Scriabin pressed a hand over his eyes. "God, I hate you."

"That's not what I meant..." Edgar looked up at him and wondered if there was any way to talk himself out of this. He wanted to reach out, touch him in some way, but every logical process told him that would be an absolutely horrible idea.

He realized that Scriabin was hiding his eyes from him again.

"Then what did you mean?" Struggling to keep emotion from his voice.

"It was real for a while." Edgar kept his hands where they were. "I mean...what we were creating, together. It was real."

"Not to you." He felt his body move and knew that Scriabin was considering pushing him off. "You don't understand. You can't understand this. Every time we go over the same thing and you never understand. Is it so hard, so difficult to think that reality for you means something different to me? That our goals can be different, yet we can work at the same thing? Can you understand that, Edgar? Can't you look beyond yourself for a few minutes to put yourself in my position? Do you even consider me worthy of your empathy? That'd be a difficult thing, to empathize with something you don't consider human..."

"Of course I can empathize." That was a skill that Edgar felt fairly skilled at, and he didn't like being questioned about it. "You know I can."

"Then it turns to the other part of it." Still talking with his hand covering his eyes. "You don't consider me worthy of that empathy, do you? If you did, the things you could accomplish...everything that you could potentially do, could learn- but you've never considered me more than a parasite, more than subhuman. I have no reality to you, Edgar. I'm not real to you. I'm not real."

"And since when was that important to you?" Inspired by the anger that he normally suppressed that came to him so easily here, and he instantly regretted his words. He expected another blow to the head, but Scriabin didn't raise his hand. He stayed silent.

There was a point in there somewhere, and maybe if handled a little better... "For so long you told me that you were me, that we were the same person. You were always going on and on about how separating from me was unhealthy, that it meant I was going crazy, all of it was this intense and sweeping effort on your part to have me consider you a part of me, nothing more and nothing less. And now, now because you've suddenly changed your focus, you've suddenly changed your goals, you get angry at me because I didn't know? You never told me anything, you never told me that you wanted me to...you wanted me to think of you as a person. You never said anything, you just assumed that I would know, that I would read your mind somehow and just know that suddenly it went from 'I'm you' to 'I'm not you.' What right do you have to be angry at me? I'm not blameless, sure, but I don't think this is entirely my fault."

Scriabin didn't say anything. He sighed, then pulled his hand away from his eyes. Perched on his nose were a pair of reflective glasses, identical to the ones he had lost earlier. He adjusted them slightly, pushed them up the bridge his nose, and Edgar knew that the damage to their joint illusion was irreparable now. He was sure of it.

"People change," Scriabin finally said, his voice distant and soft.

"Mmm..." Edgar didn't want to fight about this anymore. Now the stories they had been weaving together, the joint cat's cradle between the two of them, seemed a thousand times more appealing than continuing their argument, or any argument really. There were so many ways to respond to what he had said, but he just didn't want to do this. He didn't dream to argue, he didn't dream to relive his daily life again and again.

"What else can you remember?"

Another short pause.

"Do you think it's that easy?"

"I...I don't want to fight with you. I don't want to fight at all right now. That's not what I wanted to do here."

"And of course, I always do what you want. I'm the picture of obedience." There was no sarcasm in his tone, although by all rights there should have been.

"Can't we let it go?"

"Have we ever let anything go?"

Edgar looked up at him.

"Please."

"How can I let it go when it ruins, it changes the entire thrust of what we were doing? It's more than any typical argument over this and that, it affects what we're doing. It affects the past we were creating. How can I..."

"Please."

Scriabin looked away.

"Can't we pretend? Can't we pretend again?" Edgar reached up a hand and he touched that strand of hair. It felt soft and smooth underneath his fingers, the sensation only broken by the roughness of the yarn keeping it in place.

Scriabin must have felt the tug and he turned back to look down at him.

"It's always pretend with you." His voice wavered.

"I don't want to fight right now. I was happy for a while...so were you. Did we lose that so completely? Was it so easily destroyed?"

"It's always pretend with you." It was no steadier the second time.

Edgar sighed and he held on to the strand of hair, rolled the knot of the yarn between his fingers.

"I remember something about you."

Scriabin didn't say anything for a while, but then he let loose a very long and deep sigh. He looked and sounded so miserably resigned.

"What did you remember?"

Scriabin didn't want to play along anymore, but it looked like he would at least make the effort. Edgar hoped that maybe the stories he could tell would remind him of what they could do together.

"I had to cook a lot of the time, with Granma's back and all..." There were fragments of these stories that had their source in real memories, and that lent to them an air of truth that made them more plausible. "Fairly simple things...nothing too complicated..."

"Not like you had anything better to do with your time." Scriabin kept all emotion from his voice, and Edgar got the distinct impression that he was trying not to listen.

"But there was this brand of macaroni and cheese that you were totally crazy for...I don't know what it was, but there was this time when you were a bit younger where that was all you would eat. You wouldn't eat anything else, just that kind of macaroni. We must have eaten it for weeks on end before you moved on to something else...I thought Granma was going to go crazy by the end of it..."

Edgar hoped that the story he was telling would be seen as an apology, an attempt to repair the damage done. He didn't mean to do it, to hurt him, and some part of him still insisted that it wasn't entirely his fault, but he wanted to fix it. He wanted to apologize in a way that Scriabin would accept and couldn't refute, couldn't reverse back on him somehow.

"Every night, it was always the same thing. 'What do you want to eat?' 'Mac 'n cheese!' and every time I'd threaten not to make it, but in the end I'd make it anyway. You just got so excited over it. I never understood."

"No one ever cooked anything for you, as a child, that you particularly asked for. It was always what was healthy, what you needed to develop." Keeping his distance from the fantasy, and Edgar wished he wasn't doing this. He didn't want to do this alone. "So..."

"I wanted to cook for _you_..."

Scriabin stared at him, then looked away again. His mouth twitched, but he didn't say anything.

"I can remember a few other things...if you're interested."

Silence. Edgar decided to continue. He hoped that the reminder of who he was doing it for, who so often the recipient was of what he always wanted in these fantasies, would remind him that he hadn't intended to hurt him. He didn't want to hurt people, and most of the time, Scriabin was no exception.

Edgar noticed at that point that while Scriabin had replaced his glasses, the bruises and cuts marking his face remained.

"What does it mean, that I want something so badly so I do it for you? Why not for myself? Why not make you do it for me?"

"I don't know." A sullen response.

"Do you remember the bush?"

Scriabin didn't move or acknowledge the question, so Edgar decided to continue anyway. "We were at someone's house...I can't remember who, now that I think about it, and they had a second story...so we were hanging around there, I think staying away from the crowd...that was it, it was a birthday party. We were never much for big crowds, really. But we were upstairs, and we looked out the window and below us was this big trimmed hedge. I remember you said that it looked bouncy enough and that if I jumped out and landed on it, it would break my fall."

There. Edgar saw it, the slight twitch of a smile. Maybe this would work after all. "I didn't believe you. It looked really dangerous. But you insisted that the bush would definitely break the fall if someone jumped out the window."

"And I knew you wouldn't do it." Scriabin jumped in with a slight tinge of aggression. Edgar let him have the rest of the story. "You'd never work up the nerve. I had to prove it to you. So I opened the window and jumped."

Edgar's eyes widened. That was not the turn he expected.

"I landed on the bush all right, and I ended up tearing a huge boy-sized chunk out of it." Scriabin snickered in a vaguely sadistic way. "I was a bit dazed and bruised, but otherwise fine. You, however, practically had kittens about it."

"I tried to grab you when you jumped but I was too slow..."

"Heh, and so did the boy who invited us over, actually." Snickering again, and Edgar wondered at his ability to find enjoyment over someone's suffering. Wasn't there a German word for that? "I remember that boy's mom wanted to slap us around for that so badly, but since we weren't her kids, she couldn't do anything. She just had to get a gardener to try and remove that giant hole in the hedge."

"I recall not being invited to many birthday parties after that." Edgar chanced a smile, glad that Scriabin had joined him again, even if it was in such a mean way. "Not that we were invited to many to begin with."

"Granma also had a fit, but that was to be expected, really. Mostly about me jumping out the window rather than ruining that lady's topiary." The large word seemed strangely out-of-place. "Shouldn't take such unnecessary risks, I think it was. That was a running theme with her."

"You did take a lot of risks. I can't believe you did that. Two stories, Scriabin!" Edgar worried for a moment that his indignant tone would force Scriabin out again, trigger aggression that could sweep away the web they were weaving.

"The bush did break my fall, actually. Just not as much as I thought it would."

Edgar breathed a mental sigh of relief. "You're lucky you didn't break your arm or anything."

"I was always doing stuff like that. It was fun. I never understood how you could live like that, so safe all the time without ever risking yourself once."

"Well, whenever you talked me into it..."

"I did have the gift for talking you into things." Scriabin smiled. "I was always described as eloquent."

Edgar remembered something, something that he had completely forgotten and he had a feeling this may be a good time to try and bring it up, considering...

"Hey, Scri..."

Scriabin twitched at the nickname. "What?"

"Elocution."

A kind of muffled snort, then Scriabin hid his mouth behind his hand. "Goddamn you, you know that word makes me laugh."

Somehow, the obscenity coming from Scriabin didn't seem quite as powerful as when it came from Edgar. Rarity he supposed had a hand in that.

"I know." Edgar smiled, and Scriabin glared at him, although the effect was lessened by the fact he was still smiling.

"Hey, do you remember the S'mores we made?"

"I'd hesitate to call them that." Scriabin tried to put on an air of dignity after his snickering fit. "They were more psuedo-S'mores than anything else. I mean, we used the microwave."

"I know..." Edgar sighed. He could picture it so easily, the two of them glued to the front of the plastic door, watching the time tick down and the marshmallow swell under invisible heat. "Heh, I remember staring at the microwave too long and too close...I got so dizzy."

"That was so lame though." Scriabin had a touch of old resentment in his voice and Edgar had a feeling that it wasn't really Scriabin's to begin with. He had just borrowed it...taken it away... "I mean, we never really had real ones. Even when we used the burner on the stove-"

"God, Granma completely freaked out about that. One of the forks turned all black from the flames, and that one marshmallow caught on fire and fell in, and she made us clean it up and promise to never touch the stove again under penalty of-"

Edgar shuddered for a moment at the sudden and all-too-real sensation of yarn crisscrossing his hands, binding them together and looping through his fingers and the hours he spent and her voice and, and he pushed the thought away.

Scriabin looked at him for a few seconds, and Edgar thought he felt him shiver in response, just a little.

"Well, I could touch it." Desperate to change the subject. "I mean, when I was cooking. I could touch it still. You were totally forbidden."

"But yeah, that's not the same." Scriabin just as eager to keep his mind off of a shared and very real memory. "I mean, cooking it on a burner? In a microwave? The only real way to eat them is outdoors."

"Didn't we do that, once?" Now that Edgar thought about it, that would be a nice fantasy. He was fairly sure he never had the chance as a child. "Didn't we sneak out or something...?"

"Hmm." Scriabin sensed what Edgar wanted, tried to think up a good reason or explanation for the memory he desired. "Well, I do think..."

"We must have gone with someone..."

"Yeah, and I'm fairly sure we didn't tell Gran about it, either." Scriabin paused. "I think that was one of the things she never found out about."

It was comfortable and safe to imagine her reactions when they had no real basis, no real anxiety or pain attached to them, but when his thoughts lingered on the reality, on what really happened when he had so rarely misbehaved and even when he hadn't, he didn't want to think about it. The idea of getting away with such things completely grew far more appealing than bearing the brunt of some imagined and easily swept-aside punishment.

An easy thing for reality to intrude, particularly when not welcome, and both of them would prefer not to think about that. It wouldn't take much to move this dream into the realm of nightmares, and Edgar often found that thoughts of her, of being so trapped, of having to listen to her for hours upon hours, would often prompt nightmares that had the added unpleasantness of being associated with tremendous guilt for feeling that way, for resenting the one person who raised him, for resenting her despite the kind things she had done and the sacrifices she had made, and how could he do that to her? How could he have nightmares about her, when she had done so much for him?

"But she still hurt you..." Scriabin's voice broke into his thoughts. "It doesn't take much else to provide fodder for nightmares..."

"Where were you?" Edgar didn't want to think about this, but he found his inability to place Scriabin during those times distressing. He wanted some resolution, some place for Scriabin to be, he didn't want to be alone then, not when he had reworked his past to prevent that very thing...

"When she called you to hold the yarn for her?" Scriabin's voice was gentle, and for a moment Edgar imagined that perhaps all personal grievances had been put aside, and all that mattered to him now was his older brother. But perhaps that was stretching the illusion too far. "She wouldn't let me stay with you, usually...it was always something that you had to suffer through alone..."

"And you...?"

"Well..." Vaguely uncomfortable again. "I've...had my share of time spent with her. I've been trapped too. But it pales in comparison to you...it was always you. She wouldn't let me be with you, help you against what she would say..."

"Did she know?" Edgar wanted to believe she didn't. "She didn't know how much that hurt...she couldn't have."

"No, I don't think she did. Building character." Scriabin closed his eyes. "Preparing you. Too young...you were too young to understand, so it just crashed around you and it became..."

So long it lingered in the back of his mind, the red strands that looped their way around such mundane objects and, in moments of terror, around his hands. With them came that sense of powerlessness, of completely helplessness to stop his unwitting tormentor, and that was the part that he found he feared the most.

"You may fear it..." Scriabin looked around the backyard, and placed a hand on Edgar's head. "You may fear it, but I resent it. You used to, but I do it for you now."

"God, let's talk about something else." Edgar shut his eyes. "I don't...I don't want to think about it right now."

"Hmm..." Scriabin looked around again. "Heh, all right, something light hearted, something...do you remember when sometimes, when I was asleep, you would sneak up and you'd braid my hair all stupid? Then you'd just wait around for me to wake up, and you'd just start laughing when I found out what you'd done. It made my hair all frizzy and wavy for hours."

The mental picture of Scriabin with frizzy hair was enough to drive his thoughts away from darker times, at least for now. He smiled again and laughed, and at the sound Scriabin smiled in return. Victory for him, in a way, at having distracted him. Why would he consider it a victory?

"Do you remember..." Edgar found another real memory, another base that he could elaborate on. "Do you remember that one time we had to go shopping for Granma, cause her back was out again?"

"I do." A smile slowly spread across his face. "Ah, I remember that very clearly."

"Didn't you want a cake?"

"Oh yeah." Scriabin waved a hand. "More for the fact that it wouldn't be for any special occasion than an actual desire for cake. There's something kind of..." He paused, searched for a word, then shrugged. "I suppose the best word for it would be naughty, although I dislike it. But yes, there was something like that when you would eat a cake out of season, out of context."

"And the shopping carts."

Scriabin laughed at that, a sadistic one that Edgar had often found directed at him, but not this time. He was a little unnerved by the fact that Scriabin's sadism, however minor when really considered, extended to others outside of him.

"Oh yes, the shopping carts."

"If I recall correctly..." Edgar tried to remember the first trip to the store by himself. It wasn't the last by any means, as only a short while later his grandmother had insisted that he do all the shopping to prepare himself for an adult life. A lot of things were that way for him. But the first trip was the one that he did remember fairly clearly, and now with the thought of Scriabin with him... "I was so tempted to buy some soda...she would never let us have any."

"Hehe. Hehehe. That's because the one time I did have a soda, I recall completely freaking out. It wasn't even the sugar or the caffeine that did it, I don't think, but just the excitement of drinking something new and something I wasn't supposed to."

"Oh my God, that's right, you completely trashed our room."

"And the living room."

"And the kitchen. You were like this horrible tornado."

"That was so awesome." Scriabin smiled at the thought. "When I was like that, the last thing on my mind were consequences. You can't get that freedom nowadays."

An easy chance, perhaps unintentional, to return to reality, and Edgar wasn't about to do that just yet.

"Either way, she banned it for sure after that. She also took away your lunch money and made me start fixing your lunch, so you wouldn't be tempted by the soda machines at school."

"Hmm...the first time is always the best." Scriabin looked up at the sky. "The first time is always the best. But I suppose that if it had gone longer...perhaps I did develop an addiction. You know, if we do delve deeper, look a bit past the curtain but not tear it down, I do recall a similar episode occurring with you with your first illicit can of soda, and a desire for the rush that follows you even now...well, not you so much. Another thing that's become a part of me instead, in a way. Now that I think about it, I do crave that. Huh, I thought it was just the tacos. I wonder if there's some deeper memory to explain that as well."

"Tacos were for special occasions." Edgar knew the answer, so he automatically pointed it out. "Do you remember?"

"Ha...do you remember, do you remember. It just struck me that..." Scriabin shook his head. "What kind of special occasions?"

"You know, whenever I did really well at something...got really good grades, or it was the beginning of a holiday. She'd take us to a fast food place, this one taco place that was close to where we lived."

"That's right, I've often thought about that." Scriabin rubbed at a bruise on his cheek. "That food was so widely condemned and perhaps rightly so, and characterized by so many as so worthless and bland. But for us..."

"For us, it was something special..."

"Other people would go and have a taco everyday, but for us, it was only those special times of the year, when she would take us and it would taste so good and I'm sure the only reason why, considering what's in those things, is because it was associated with that happy feeling. That kind of pride in knowing you were worth that."

"Worth a taco?" Edgar chanced a smirk, and Scriabin swatted his forehead.

"Worth her going out of her way to give you something special. Affection...validation...no wonder I want them...you want them too."

"Not as much as you do...but I think you're right."

"Well, I think I may have...ah, it doesn't matter. Our quirks are always interchangeable in the end."

"Mmm. Anyway, where were we?"

"Supermarket." Another smile. "I remember the two of us putting that box of soda in the cart while looking around as if we'd get arrested any minute."

"Ha, I remember how we got it home..."

"Let's keep this linear for now...although tangents are what always make these stories so interesting, and so long. I recall we spent a lot of time in the candy aisle."

"Not even buying anything, but just staring."

"Heh, you did buy something. Don't you remember a certain three pound bag of Gummi Bears?"

"Oh my GOD." Edgar moaned and pressed his hands over his eyes. "I still feel sick thinking of Gummi Bears to this day. God, why did I buy that?"

"Awash with possibility, responsibility I suppose. Independence and the chance to do something stupid. There you go, Edgar. There's a stupid childhood decision for you, and not the last."

"And you, wasn't there a candy you were particularly fond of?"

"Hmm, I..." Scriabin paused. "I do remember...I did have one once...when I was very little, almost too small to remember. I grabbed it off the shelf while she was shopping once, and she got it for me then as a special gift. While I do think the tacos that we had were...greatly enhanced by the pleasant associations we had with them, that chocolate was good chocolate. Expensive too, although I didn't know that at the time. I'm not sure why she got it for me...a random splurge of kindness, I suppose. Ever since then I always wanted another one, but it was always too expensive...too unnecessary."

"And when we were there...we got them."

"We got two, I think." Scriabin sighed in a vaguely pleased way. "That was as much as I really felt comfortable getting, considering the budget she gave us."

"And then..."

"I was wearing my coat...the coat. Your dad's coat. I was wearing it then." The determination in his voice made it so. "I put it on while she wasn't watching. It trailed behind me so far and kept getting caught in the cart wheels."

Edgar smiled and let Scriabin add that piece to the false memory. "Two young boys in a supermarket, with no real supervision...add a shopping cart, and you have..."

"The best recipe for disaster." A devilish smile. "I think it was my idea."

"Of course it was your idea. It was always your idea."

"I jumped into the main basket, one hand held high, yelling something that I can't recall that probably didn't make a lot of sense."

Caught up in it, and he felt excited. "I had that moment of hesitation, and then I just decided to go for it. Just ran and leapt on and we were careening down the aisles-"

"God, getting in trouble was such a certainty, I even mentioned it, but it was too much to resist. Away from her, it's strange that that's the first thing we would have resorted to."

"I couldn't steer-"

"Well, I don't know how much one can really steer a shopping cart."

"Right into the display case."

Scriabin nodded in satisfaction. "Right into the display case."

"And that was pretty much the end of our shopping trip." He didn't feel like elaborating on the possible consequences of his misbehavior at the moment, and judging by his expression, neither did Scriabin.

"Fantastic ending, if you ask me." Scriabin smiled. "We got the groceries though, so I don't think Gran ever found out about that."

"Hey...how did we get the soda in the house?"

"Hmm...that would have been a tricky thing." Scriabin tapped a finger on his chin thoughtfully. "Didn't you say you thought of something?"

"I lost it now."

"Well, let's see...Gran definitely wouldn't have let us keep it if she saw us take it in...I'm thinking that one of us presented a diversion while the other snuck it in some back way."

"Or..." Edgar was getting glimpses of his original idea, but still couldn't find the whole of it. "Or we could have hid the soda somewhere and went back for it later..."

"Well, either of those could work...she definitely didn't find out though..."

"Definitely..." Edgar sighed, a deep one that he didn't particularly attach to any emotion. Scriabin stared down at him, and Edgar found his hand twitching and he couldn't remember when that had started. "What time is it?"

Scriabin looked at Edgar's wrist. Immediately memories leapt to life, explanations quick and swift for why. Scriabin had trouble telling time for a long time as a child, unable to read the hands and increments, and he had always depended on Edgar to tell him the time since he refused to wear a watch, to wear something that always reminded him that there was something he couldn't understand...

"Where's your watch?" Scriabin's question was completely honest, without even the implied depth of their previous memories, and Edgar found his reaction matched.

"I don't know." Edgar lifted his hands and looked at his wrists. A bruise colored one side of his right hand, and his skin was stained green in places from the grass. No watch. "I don't know...did I lose it?"

"Maybe it fell off when we were fighting? That's happened before."

Scriabin didn't want this to be the first time...that was okay. Edgar didn't particularly care either way. He sat up, shook off the dizziness of the blood rushing out of his head, and looked around. No sign of it anywhere. Scriabin stood up and brushed himself off, then ran two hands roughly and quickly through his long hair. Grass flew everywhere.

"Mmph, I don't see it here." Scriabin shook his head and his hair fluffed out to a ridiculous extent. Edgar stood himself and laughed slightly at his appearance, although he tried to hide it.

A quick perusal of the area around them, and still no watch. Edgar instantly sobered. "Oh, she's not going to like this...she told me to be careful with that watch, it was supposed to last me a long time..."

Such a quick and subtle change from merely talking about memories to actually living one out, and the reality of this was a great deal more tangible, more believable, more powerful. Concerns and the waking world were fading from his memory as Edgar looked over the grass. The future, his fear, his regret, his mistakes and his accomplishments all slowly vanishing, erased steadily and subtly. Soon there would be nothing left but what he had created, the world around his childself that was almost entirely false, and his childself whose reality he could never overcome. He could change his environment, but he himself remained constant, and that made it easier for him, easier to place himself in this fake world because there was one thing that he knew well, that was permanent and couldn't or wouldn't change. His childself became his anchor, and he felt more and more attached to it as the fantasy around him deepened. Becoming his childself, just as he had intended when he began this entire thing. It wasn't himself that he was trying to avoid through the illusion, but just the reality that surrounded him, past and present. Emotions kicking in that were genuine at a source that felt as though it was real, it could really be real...

"Do you still have that watch now?" Scriabin darted over to the sandbox, then proceeded to trip over the edge of it and fall hard on his hands. The noise that came from him was a mangled obscenity, twisted just enough to be incomprehensible, help keep the illusion going. Edgar's grandmother did not tolerate foul language. Edgar walked over to his side and picked Scriabin back up.

"You're clumsy."

"And you're ugly." Scriabin grumbled and rubbed his hands against his shirt. "So shut up."

"Stop that." Edgar grabbed for Scriabin's hands and had to try a few times before he succeeded in getting a hold of them. Scriabin sighed in a truly exaggerated fashion as Edgar looked at his palms. Scraped and raw, but no more so than they had been before. He let him go, and Scriabin pulled his hands away quickly and jammed them into his pockets.

"Scri, what-"

"Don't. Don't do that."

"...mm. Scriabin, what about...how are we going to explain this to her?"

"The fight?"

Edgar nodded.

"Edgar...are you telling me she's still here?"

The sound of the screen door opening.

"Edgar! Scriabin! Where are you?"


	21. Delusion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: I recommend an OC Remix called "Journey's End" from Final Fantasy X for listening for this part. You can find it at www.ocremix.org.

It had been years, years since he had last heard her voice, imagined it even, and at the sound of it again Edgar shuddered violently, felt fear that crawled all the way up his back and made his arms shake and his nerves slip into overdrive. Immediately he set to rubbing his hands, skin sliding over skin and he stared at Scriabin desperately.

Scriabin stared back at him and he found that he knew, he could see easily that he felt the same way. Scriabin had flouted, mocked the god that Edgar had feared and obeyed for so long, but this, this he had tied himself too close to, he had become too attached and this was something that wasn't as intangible, as variable and vanquishable as a belief system. These were memories, these were the building blocks for his life and his personality, for both of them. Both of them had these memories and perhaps against his will, Scriabin understood and Scriabin felt the same way, he felt the same fear.

Her voice caught on Scriabin's name, unfamiliar but that would smooth out soon enough.

"Edgar!" He didn't dare ignore her twice.

"Yeah, Granma?" Edgar gestured at Scriabin, told him to run and hide somewhere or something. To be honest he wasn't exactly sure what he wanted Scriabin to do and it was possible that his jerky hand movements were equally as unclear. Edgar turned and saw his grandmother standing in the doorway of the house. Behind him, he felt Scriabin's small hands settle on his sides, felt the warmth of his body close and felt his head touch his back. Using him as a shield, protection. Edgar warned him back with a hand and found he wanted Scriabin out of this, out of what he knew what would come.

"There you are. I've been calling you for hours. Why didn't you tell me you were outside? What have you been up to? I have something I need your help with..." Edgar knew that his grandmother had trouble walking sometimes, so he wouldn't force her to come and get him. That would have been selfish. As he had for years, ever since he met her and understood, knew even though she never said as much that he owed her, he owed her for taking care of him, he did what would be best for her, what would make things easiest. He repaid her kindness with obedience because as a child, he had little else to offer.

Edgar walked towards the house, and Scriabin stayed hidden behind him, his fingers clutching the fabric of Edgar's shirt tightly. Both shaking, and he knew that the minute he got into the light...

"My goodness, Edgar!" The inherent disappointment stung horribly, that painful perhaps unintentional accusation that he had not obeyed, he had hurt her somehow. He had disappointed her, and God, all he wanted to do was make her happy, to repay her for what she had done. How hard was that really, and he could never do it, he could never do it properly... "What happened?"

Edgar rubbed his nose hard and sniffed. He wasn't bleeding anymore, the time for that was long over, but he was sure that the evidence remained. He couldn't look her in the eyes, couldn't face that knowledge that he had let her down, that he had managed to fail at something that anyone could do, anyone should do, he had managed to fail and hurt her and God, he didn't want to hurt people, he never wanted to hurt people and he didn't want to hurt her, and that was all he did because he kept breaking her rules, he kept breaking and he kept disobeying and

Scriabin's small arms wrapped around him from behind, holding him tight and he could feel Scriabin shaking hard and felt his face pressed against his back. Breath hot through the fabric of his shirt, and it made sense that he would be more frightened. This was new to him, and it never would have seemed like this, seemed so real and so close.

The memories they created set a framework, and Edgar had a feeling that he could do something, that he could do something for someone he cared about. He was willing and able to do that, to shoulder the responsibility and pain for someone else. He had done that a lot as a child and he knew that in the end, even if it was unfair, even if it wasn't really his fault, even if it wasn't his crime to begin with, that if he could spare someone else some pain, however deserved, he would do it. He could do it.

"It was my fault." He felt Scriabin jerk behind him. "It was my fault, I got angry and...I got angry and got into a fight..."

"You got into a fight?" She sounded horrified, and Edgar wanted to sink into the earth.

Scriabin's head nudged his arm out of the way, and Edgar turned slightly, raised his arm and Scriabin looked up at her.

"It was my fault-"

"No, no it wasn't." Edgar looked back and forth between the two. "Don't get-, it wasn't his fault, it wasn't his idea. I swear, it was my fault. Don't-, don't get mad at him. Don't get mad at him, honest. It was my fault-"

Scriabin quivered and he tightened his hold around Edgar's waist, buried his head into his side.

"Nuh uh."

He was so deeply frightened. Getting lost...being this deep, being this involved in this kind of fantasy, in this kind of body, must have been a terrifying experience for him. Edgar couldn't recall any other time before that the two had woven such a thick web around each other, particularly regarding this kind of illusion. They had pretended at many things before, but they had never pretended at being children, and this world, this past that Scriabin so desperately wanted, proved to have a sharper edge than he must have anticipated. Pushed hard and he was reverting, he was allowing the reality, the false reality that the two of them had constructed, to have more power. Perhaps he felt powerless, which would have suited the situation far too well.

Edgar had never seen him like this, but this illusion was new to the both of them, the world the two of them had created, and he wasn't aware that its power ran this deep or this strong, that they could have created something that they both couldn't control. One of them always held onto things in the end, but Scriabin had tangled himself up a little too much in this, and now they both had nothing.

He was frightened, more than anything.

"Scriabin, I did, it was my idea-"

Scriabin shook his head and repeated with a bit more force, "nuh uh."

"Haven't I told you two how fighting doesn't solve anything? Particularly fighting over something that isn't worth it. You've got to learn to pick your battles, Edgar. There are certain things worth fighting for and others that aren't. There are times to fight and times when just staying quiet can solve a lot of problems, you understand?"

"Yes, Granma." Edgar found that he was rubbing his hands again.

"Now come on, I have something I need you to hold for me. You too, Scriabin. We're going to have to talk about this."

God, who knew that talking could be such an effective threat? Scriabin made an unhappy sound and Edgar rested a hand on his shoulder lightly. His grandmother walked back into the house, back to the room where she'd wait for him and Edgar would come. He always came when she called, because he at least owed her that much. He did what she asked because anything else would have been...

"It's okay." Scriabin's grip was getting too tight and he wished he would relax just a little. They were both shaking now, and Edgar let the screen door close behind him. Scriabin refused to let him go, just clung to him even though it made walking extremely awkward. Outside, Edgar could see dark clouds forming and he wondered if there would be rain.

"It'll be okay." He again tried to get Scriabin to relax his grip, but he refused. A few more awkward steps, and Scriabin's voice came muffled from behind him.

"I'm scared, Edgar."

His voice perfectly matched his body, his actions, and thus what he said did not impact Edgar as much as perhaps it would have in any other situation. He had never heard Scriabin say such a thing, but now, in this situation, in this place with these bodies and this memory that they were living out, reworking as they followed the patterns and changed them, it seemed natural. It seemed just the thing that Edgar's seven-year-old younger brother would say.

"Don't worry." Edgar tousled Scriabin's hair in an effort to appear more confident than he sounded or felt. "Don't worry, it'll be okay. She won't...she won't hurt you."

"Is this what it is?" More awkward steps down the hallway. "I can't...I'm not used to this. This isn't me but...but it IS me, but...it feels so- and I can't, I can't just...get out. What if, what if something bad happens?"

"Nothing bad'll happen. This has happened before. She just wants to tell us not to fight. That's all."

"I've never been scared of anyone before, but I'm...I'm scared of her."

"Are you sure? Are you sure that it's you and not just me? You said you took things from me...are you sure you didn't take this too?"

"She's different, she's different than God. She's...I don't know what to do." Scriabin pressed his head against Edgar hard, and Edgar had to stop to keep his balance. "I don't know what to do, I don't know how to make her go away, I don't know I don't know I don't know how to make my words, how to say it right so that she goes away. I can't even talk right anymore what if something bad happens and I can't go back and this is permanent I'm scared Edgar I don't want to change I don't want to become this I don't want to be afraid like this-"

"It's just a dream." He found himself in the position of comforter, and somehow that didn't seem unusual. "It'll be okay. I'll take care of it."

"I've never done this before, I've never really been there I mean, I've seen it, I looked at it before and I watched but I was never there I mean, she never did it to me, she never interacted with me 'cause I wasn't as real as you, I wasn't real like you-"

"Quiet..." Edgar opened the door to the room, and his grandmother sat in her chair and stared at him. She gestured to a cushion on the floor, beside the wicker basket, and Edgar found that he walked there without even thinking about it. It was automatic, empty, and he found that this must have been it, this must have been where it started, where he stopped caring, where he stopped feeling-

"Is Scriabin with- ah, there he is. Don't hide from me, I know you're there and I have a feeling that you're a bit more involved in this than Edgar would like me to think, hmm?"

"Really, it was my fault..."

"Sit down here..." Edgar did, and Scriabin reluctantly had to let go. He stood behind Edgar for a few seconds, completely at a loss as to what to do. He had never interacted with her, not really, not outside of stories, and he didn't know. Inter-relational abilities so crippled from just being with Edgar so long, and he stood there helpless and confused and no doubt filled with self-hatred for his ignorance. "Sit down, Scriabin! Honestly."

It was so easy to make up brave stories, but when faced with the reality, with a reality that he had never anticipated or expected or really given much credence to, Scriabin found that his behavior echoed Edgar's far more than he would have liked. He sat down beside Edgar, as close to him as he could get, and hunched over in a miserable ball. He kept his eyes focused directly down at his hands, refused to look up.

"Now, what was this fight about?" She pulled out a skein of yellow yarn from the basket, and Edgar held out his hands despite every single part of him screaming at him not to. Everything in him wanted to escape, to run, to hide, to do something, and instead he obeyed. He pushed down every part of him that rejected, that wanted to fight, and he obeyed. He'd done this for years. He'd done this his whole life and now, even in dreams, he found that the ability came to him so easily. He held out his hands, and she looped the yellow yarn around with an ease that seemed to indicate she wasn't aware of how he felt, how much he hated and feared this. He hoped that was what it was.

"Edgar, what was the fight about?"

He didn't want to say. There was no good explanation, nothing that wouldn't sound stupid under scrutiny. Self-hatred and loathing for his lack of self-control, and his hands shook and Scriabin kept trying to press closer to him.

"I...it was a stupid thing to do, I'm sorry, I just, I just got so angry, I really shouldn't have..."

"No, what was the fight _about_?" God, he had even failed in responding to her question. He closed his eyes and felt himself trembling and he wondered what it meant, what it meant that the one person that he wanted to approve of him, that he wanted to know cared for him, that he wanted to accept his attempt to repay them, that their validation was so important to him that the slightest disappointment, the negative word here and there, could hurt him so badly. All he had to do was listen to her, all he had to do was obey her, and he kept making mistakes, he kept doing stupid things. He wasn't looking ahead, he wasn't planning, he wasn't thinking and in doing so, in being so thoughtless and spontaneous he failed her, hurt her. He couldn't do that, he wouldn't allow himself to do that to someone that he cared so much about.

"I wouldn't leave him alone." Scriabin's voice was weak and his words slurred, and at this point he was almost in Edgar's lap, desperate to stay as close to him as possible in the face of the source of that other dialogue, that voice that ran deeper than either of them that constantly monitored, objected, punished for Edgar's behavior. Scriabin was aware of that voice, he knew of it, thought at first that perhaps it was Edgar's religion that was its source and later he had been proven incorrect, but he never anticipated to be its focus. It had been so self-directed for so long, and it had never occurred to Scriabin that if he got this close to Edgar, that if he wanted to be this close and work himself into so much of Edgar's life, that that voice may find another target for its ire and disappointment. "That's why he got mad at me."

"Now Edgar...I know you're more responsible than that." Even the compliment hurt somehow. "You can't just go and do these kind of things without thinking of the consequences. Look at your clothes! Did you think about what the kids at school will think tomorrow? Did you think of how long all those cuts and bruises will last? I know you did, I know you can look ahead and be careful."

"I-I know..." Edgar choked. "I, I didn't mean to, I..."

"Do you understand that?"

"Yes, yes, I do, I-I do understand, I, I know that it's important. I know that I should always look ahead and I was going to, I wouldn't have, I didn't want to but he...but I should have looked ahead..."

"It was my fault..." Scriabin had found his way into Edgar's lap completely, curled up under his arms and against his chest, unable to even look at his grandmother anymore. "I did it, I made him do it. I made him angry."

"You may have made him angry, Scriabin, but it was Edgar's decision to lose control." Edgar shuddered and swallowed hard. "You can't let him get to you, Edgar. He's just trying to provoke you. He always does that. Normally you just let it go."

"I know..."

"You're old enough to know that starting fights with your little brother is not an intelligent thing to do. You know better than that."

She was right and God, he hated himself for it. The last thing he ever wanted to do was disappoint the people he cared about...

"I'm sorry..."

"Don't say sorry to me, say sorry to him! He's the one you started the fight with."

Scriabin's head pressed hard against his chest and he could feel him breathing, feel him shaking.

"I'm sorry, Scriabin..."

Scriabin made a long and unhappy sound at the words.

"Edgar, you know that I won't be around forever, and I'm concerned about you." Her tone softened. "You need to understand these things, because someday I won't be here to tell you what to do, or what's appropriate. Someday you're going to be alone, and I want you to know what to do when that time comes. I want you to know what's right and what's wrong. You're your brother's keeper, and he's your responsibility. You've got to remember that, no matter how much he may annoy you. There are some people, Edgar, that are going to do that, that are going to try and provoke you into unnecessary battles and you have to learn how to stand above it. Turn the other cheek, isn't that right?"

"Seven times seven..."

"That's right, repay it seven times seven. Very good." And that took the edge, the pain away for a few seconds. Just that one moment of recognition and it made things that much better. "Do you understand?"

"Yes, Granma."

"You know that I'm just worried about you, that's why I want to talk to you about these things, right?"

"Yes, Granma."

"And you know now that you should be more careful? Think ahead, be more cautious and responsible? You're going to have to take care of yourself someday, Edgar, maybe someday soon, and I want to make sure you know how to do that when the time comes."

"Yes, Granma."

"Good. Now, Scriabin..."

At the sound of his name Scriabin made a soft yelping sound and clutched Edgar tighter. Edgar could only just feel his heartbeat frantic and fluttering.

"Oh, stop that. I've never seen someone more melodramatic than you. I know you're younger, Scriabin, but that doesn't give you an excuse to torment your older brother whenever you please."

Scriabin was mumbling something, but Edgar couldn't make it out. He could feel his fingers digging through his shirt.

"Edgar's learning to take responsibility for himself, and you should too. Your actions do have consequences, you know. Aren't you sorry that you made Edgar angry, after he started that fight with you?"

Scriabin nodded just barely. Edgar shifted his weight and Scriabin moved with him, stayed as close to him as possible. Edgar's hands jerked a little and his grandmother compensated for the motion, knitting needles clicking softly.

"Scriabin, I know you're young and you don't understand how everything works just yet, but you've got to understand that other people have feelings too. Edgar has feelings that can be hurt just as easily as yours, and I don't like seeing you treating him badly. He's your brother, Scriabin, and you should be kinder to him."

Scriabin made another unhappy sound, almost a protest, and kept his face hidden. His grandmother made a chiding sound at his response, then sighed.

"Now, you two, do you understand why that wasn't a good idea? Why fighting isn't a good idea?"

"Yes, Granma."

Scriabin didn't say anything.

"You two have got to take care of each other. I'm old, you know that. When I die, it'll just be you two, and I want you to be nicer to each other. When it comes down to it, you two will always be family, and family will always...almost always be there for you. You don't realize how important it is, how fortunate you are to have each other. You'll never be alone as long as you two are together, and I know that you get frightened if you're left alone too long."

Edgar wasn't sure who exactly she was referring to, but he nodded anyway. He noticed that Scriabin nodded with him.

"No matter what happens, you two are connected. You'll always be connected. It would be so much better for both of you if you just learned to get along, isn't that right?"

"Yes, Granma."

A very muffled soft sound. "Yes'm."

A moment where she considered the two in front of her, and then she smiled just slightly. "Well, it looks like this is done..." His grandmother looked at the new yellow sock in her lap. "So Edgar, why don't you take Scriabin upstairs and get yourselves cleaned up? Come back down when you're done, all right?"

"Yes, Granma."

Edgar didn't move his hands, even though his grandmother said she was done. Instead he sat and waited until she pulled the yarn away from his fingers herself, a real physical confirmation that it was over and he was released, and then he looked at the shivering ball on his lap. Scriabin still had his hands tightly wound in the fabric of Edgar's shirt, and he had curled himself up as if to take the smallest amount of space possible.

"Now, if you boys are up for it later tonight, I did pick up some cookie dough at the store today, and maybe we could get together and make something." She smiled at him and it meant the world. "What do you think? I know you like baking, sweetheart."

She leaned forward and ruffled Edgar's hair, and Edgar bathed in the momentary attention, in that moment when he felt that he maybe he had done something right.

"I like baking." He said it before he knew what he was saying, and his grandmother laughed softly.

"I know. Go and get cleaned up, and try to get along, hmm?"

He wanted to thank her, he wanted to repay her because he knew, he understood well what she had sacrificed to take care of him, that she didn't have to take care of him but she did so anyway. She didn't have to take him in, but she did, and Edgar felt as though there was no way, no real way he could repay that and that made the guilt of getting caught misbehaving so much worse. He wanted...

He wanted to know she didn't regret her decision.

"Scriabin, come on." He shook the ball on his lap, and it reluctantly unfolded back into a boy. Scriabin looked up at him, matched eyes and then wrapped his arms around his neck. Edgar sighed, managed to stand with some difficulty--his arms around Scriabin's shoulders and below his knees--and he stumbled into the hallway.

Once out of earshot, Scriabin began trembling and mumbling to himself, although it was hard to make out any of the words.

"Speak up."

"Is this what it's like?" Scriabin felt so small in his arms. "Is this what it's like when you can't get out? Is this what it's like for you?"

"You mean, is this what it's like to be real?" Earlier Scriabin no doubt would have punched him rather hard for that, but as it was he just shivered. "You've always been able to escape, to change your reality...I guess some things don't change for me. Memories even. You've never had them before...not really, not like this. When we did this, when we...twisted things together, I didn't think..."

Scriabin's forehead pressed against him and he shuddered again, frail and weak.

Edgar sat down in the bathroom beside the medicine cabinet and he let himself return the embrace. He curled his arms around Scriabin, held him close to his chest so he could hear their hearts beating, and he found that they beat in unison. Scriabin so close to him that he felt that there was no space between them at all anymore.

He rocked just slightly, a motion because his hands were occupied, and he whispered into Scriabin's hair.

"I didn't mean for you to come with me..."

The hands behind his head caught in his hair, pulled sharply and a little painfully, and Edgar shut his eyes.

"I didn't mean for you to get hurt this way..."

"Edgar, I'm..." Scriabin took a deep shaky breath, and he pulled away from him. He pushed Edgar's hands off of him, leaned back and crawled out of his lap. This felt familiar somehow, to see him pull away like this, and Edgar did not pursue him. Scriabin shook his head, stared down at the floor with a tone that tried so hard for determined and failed. "This isn't me, this isn't..."

Edgar stared at him, sighed and felt it burn deep in his chest like when he'd gone swimming too long, and he stood. He turned to the medicine cabinet, opened it and pulled out a small tin of bandages, and his emotions had leveled, had fallen into that flat-line he had known for most of his life. It let him get things done, and it got him through so much emotional turmoil because when he wasn't there, he couldn't get hurt by what happened. Pull further away until everything faded, until he could dissect how to react and predict and measure and weigh and make sure that what he did was right, what he did was what he wouldn't regret later.

Perhaps it said something that Edgar feared regret in such an indistinct yet powerful way. He never would have put it into words quite so simple and accurate, that he feared regretting his decisions more than the consequences. Get further away. Scriabin kept talking as Edgar ran the hot water and held a small dishtowel beneath it.

"I'm not this, I'm not seven years old. This is-, this has gone too far. This has gone too far, I shouldn't..." He choked, coughed for a few minutes and his face turned red, panic in the glimpses of his eyes. Edgar stared at him for a few moments, waiting to see if he needed help, but Scriabin's voice came back, this time weak and breaking on certain syllables. "I shouldn't be here, Edgar, I shouldn't, I shouldn't this isn't mine, this is-, I just wanted it to be and this has gone too far, this is too real. This is too real and I want to get out and I can't, and I-, I-"

Edgar knelt beside Scriabin, who had pressed himself against the side of the bathtub. He raised the cloth but Scriabin pushed his hand away. He tightened his fist and glared at Edgar with forced and required anger.

"No! No, Edgar! This isn't-, stop pretending! Stop pretending, this isn't real! I'm not-" He stopped, and the pain on his face invoked unwanted empathy. Muscles tightened and he could see in Scriabin what he once saw in the mirror as a child, the desperate attempt to stop tears from coming and to erase the pain. Those days when he had studied his face, studied how his muscles worked and how he changed when he felt the urge to cry arise, and how exactly to erase, to compensate, to hide the evidence so that no one would know, and that it wouldn't happen. Pressure, painful behaviors that distracted, letting his eyes wander and focusing on the incessant motion of his hands, all to stop the telltale signs from continuing to completion, to stop the process that he could recognize at increasingly earlier stages as he aged until he knew how to prevent sadness itself from even taking a real hold, he could cut it off at the root. He watched and recognized each small twitch of the muscles in Scriabin's face, the trembling and heat and shivering voice, and he placed it on his mental gradient of how close he was to tears and went over the list in his mind of just how to prevent such a thing, although he did not say as such out loud.

Edgar learned how to stop his tears because he found them useless, shameful, and at all times undeserved. Unnecessarily worrying, earned him unwanted and undeserved attention. No. There was always a better solution to the current problem beside crying, if one looked at the situation with an eye unclouded by emotion.

Scriabin, trapped in the mental image he created and the scenario they both reinforced, had no such defenses. Perhaps he did not feel as Edgar did, and his method of dealing with such pain was not so streamlined, so defined. He said his words were going, and it could be that he was regressing emotionally as well, to times when despite his best efforts, Edgar did not know how to stop his tears, how to control. It was a skill that took a long time to hone, and trapped as they were in this vision of his past, it would not be well-learned. Edgar knew it, felt confident that he was under control.

And Scriabin, Scriabin lagged behind him by those few years.

Scriabin's small hands clenched tight, and he pressed his hands to his head. His voice shook in a way that spoke of attempted strength and control so useless. "I can't, I'm not-...I'm not..."

Edgar knew what Scriabin wanted to say, but he knew that he would never say it. Scriabin said he wanted the truth, that the truth would set him free, that if only Edgar had stopped shrouding himself in lies he'd find what he'd been missing, but he knew that was a lie. He knew it was a lie because Scriabin couldn't bring himself to break the illusion. He knew now what Edgar had always known; that illusions and falsehood could be appealing, could be healing, could be necessary. Could be satisfying, and Scriabin had worked so hard for what he had right now, and to give that up for what he assumed would be the greater good...it took more maturity than Edgar felt Scriabin had, or, he reminded himself, either of them had. Neither of them could do it now, could break what they had worked so hard to create and had enjoyed before it all became too real. Reality was what had ruined this, the fantasy itself...

The fantasy itself was what Scriabin wanted, and to break that to avoid both, to avoid the pain of reality, to destroy it all was beyond him. He couldn't say it. He wouldn't say it, and Edgar knew he wouldn't. It was too late for them now.

"You are real," Edgar said, and Scriabin turned to look at him sharply.

"We can't-..." Scriabin's face marked with emotional agony, of deep inner pain and paralyzing indecision so unfamiliar to him, and he sounded desperate and pleading. His voice was a surprisingly irritating and pathetic whine. "It's all pretend..."

His words still gone. He was sure the desire for his previous eloquence, what he'd long prided himself in, was a part of Scriabin's current emotional turmoil. Desperately seeking for the words that would make it go away, and they could not be found. There was only what he had created, the rules and boundaries the two had unintentionally set in stone, and Scriabin did not know how to break them.

Edgar raised the cloth again, and this time Scriabin didn't push him away. He touched it lightly to the scratches, mindful of how it may sting, and wiped away the dirt as best he could. The grass stains would be harder to get out, and he was sure that his grandmother would make them take a bath later tonight.

"Edgar, I'm..." He couldn't say it, he couldn't bear to say it. "I want this to be true, I want this to be true so badly but it's not. It's not! This isn't real! We can't keep pretending, I'm going- I'm going to get hurt-"

"You are hurt." Edgar reached up and picked a burr from Scriabin's hair.

"No!" Scriabin stared hard at him, and Edgar saw his reflection. "No, I mean, I'm gonna get really-, really hurt, like-"

"You were and are hurt." Edgar kept all emotion from his voice, the calm deadpan that got him through so much through his life. He sounded more confident this way, more knowledgeable. More in control. "She hurt you, that's why you're afraid."

"I..." Scriabin looked down at his hands. "I don't-, I don't want to hurt like-, this isn't mine to...this isn't mine to...this pain shouldn't be for me. I shouldn't hurt like this."

"Real people hurt." Edgar unwrapped a single bandage and pressed it to Scriabin's forehead. "They hurt like you hurt now."

"No!" Everything about him screaming to say yes, but Scriabin fought. He fought and bit his lip hard. "No no, no, this isn't-, this isn't-, we made it all up, Edgar! We made it all up! This was all a lie! It's all a lie, I'm not your little brother, I'm not-"

Another bandage.

"You're right, you're not."

Scriabin turned and stared at him, and he looked heartbroken.

Edgar's voice remained even, his face neutral. Another bandage across Scriabin's nose, picked up the washcloth and he dabbed at his swollen lip. Scriabin stared at him, apparently unable to voice how hurt he felt. For all his supposed love of truth, he was afraid and perhaps ashamed that Edgar could accomplish what he could not. Edgar could feel the heat rising to Scriabin's cheeks when his hands were close, and he could see the blush that accompanied tears, the heat and shame.

"Edgar..." Weak and desperate.

Edgar began to wipe away the dirt covering Scriabin's arms, clean away the dried blood from cuts that had already for the most part healed.

"You're not my little brother," Edgar said. He felt Scriabin's arm shaking in his grip, and he turned to grab another bandage.

Scriabin hiccuped, and Edgar kept his eyes down.

"Edgar..."

"He died a long time ago."

Edgar felt his eyes boring into him, felt the shiver of surprise that went through before he went stock still. Edgar kept working, and Scriabin said nothing for those few seconds.

"What?"

"He died." Edgar applied another bandage, moved on. "When he was ten."

"Edgar, no..." Scriabin reached out a hand to stop him, and Edgar batted it away with more force than he conveyed in his voice.

"That's why..." Edgar took a breath, and he grabbed Scriabin's other arm with a grip that immediately quelled resistance. "It was nice to pretend he was alive again."

"No, no, that's not true..." Scriabin put a hand on his shoulder, shook him gently. "Edgar, you didn't..."

"His name was Scriabin...just like you. You were like him...you're what he would have become, maybe. That's why...it's nice to remember him, remember him with you."

"No no no no..." It became a litany, a soft chant and Scriabin's voice caught and he struggled to breath. "No no no no..."

"He was ten when he died." Edgar didn't look at Scriabin. Another bandage across a small cut. Repetition bred reality. "His name was Scriabin, and it was nice to pretend he was alive again."

"No, no Edgar, that's not-, that's not true." Scriabin trying to pull his arm away, but Edgar's grip tightened until the skin around turned white and Scriabin stopped. "You didn't, you never did, you were alone, you were always alone-"

"After he died."

"Edgar, please..." Scriabin buried his free hand in his hair, his entire body quaking and his voice desperate. "Don't-, you don't have to-, you don't have to do this-"

"You see?" Edgar let him go, and his fingerprints remained on his skin. Scriabin pulled his arm back away from him slowly, hesitantly, unconsciously touched the darkening marks. "That's why you hurt. That's why you're real, like me. You were real, once."

"Edgar, I'm..." Scriabin stared at him, and his face burned with the pain he struggled so hard not to show. "Edgar, I'm not...there never was, I-, I never was-"

"Scriabin." Edgar put his hands on his shoulders, stared at his reflection in his glasses. "You hurt because you're real."

Scriabin's voice was verbal suffering. He shook his head rapidly, his voice gaining volume. "No, no, I hurt- I'm hurt because I-I believed a lie, Edgar! I still believe it, I still want to believe it, and that's why, that's why- it's not because-"

Edgar tightened his grip on his shoulders, and Scriabin made a soft whimpering sound but kept his head down. He could feel his bones beneath his hands, hard against his skin and he felt so small, so fragile. Edgar stared hard, and it took a moment before Scriabin could look up again. He sniffled and trembled in Edgar's grip, barely able to maintain eye contact.

Assured of his attention, Edgar spoke clearly and slowly. "So many things could be different if I wasn't always alone."

Scriabin's mouth fell open and he breathed hard and fast, shuddering breaths that spoke of internal panic or effort and still the blood colored his cheeks and he could feel the heat off his face, and those glasses made it hard to tell if he was fighting what Edgar knew he was, and maybe that's why they were still there.

He spoke with a strange kind of realization, of something that just became clear to him and the answer, the secret wasn't what he thought it would be. "If you weren't alone..."

Edgar nodded.

"This is for..." Scriabin gulped, and looked down. He took a deep breath, and when he spoke his voice fluttered. "For a better, for the futu-...Edgar, how...how did I...how did I die?"

"Do you want to know?"

Scriabin didn't say anything for a few seconds and he kept his head down. "You weren't alone...you weren't alone, I was there. I was there so you weren't...'cause maybe things could be different. Maybe things could change, if...if I was...if I let..."

"Do you want to know what happened?"

"But it'll hurt. It hurts, and it didn't even really-, it'll hurt if we, if we...think about it again, won't it? Do we need more hurt in our lives? Does it need to hurt?" Scriabin pleaded. "Haven't-, haven't we hurt enough? Don't do this, don't hurt yourself anymore, please, please don't hurt yourself anymore-"

Edgar looked past Scriabin, found his mouth moving and his voice stayed the same, it always stayed the same. That was how he was able to give the eulogy at his grandmother's funeral, and before that, at his brother's. That was how he was able to tell people what had happened, how he was able to do so much, how he was able to avoid death when it came right up to him and slashed his face. Nothing, nothing, and that made the yarn just yarn and words just words, and set him comfortably at a distance, that dispassionate observer who wasn't involved enough to really feel anything. He stood outside, and he found he could speak and his voice didn't change.

"You were ten years old..."

"Please don't hurt yourself, you hurt too much, that's what I've been trying to tell you-"

"There was this special party someone in my class was throwing...we were both invited. Granma told us we couldn't go, that we had work we needed to do and that with our grades as they were, we couldn't afford to go out...the future was more important, it was more important than what we could have in the present. We had to think of the future."

"Edgar, don't, don't please, please don't do this, stop doing this to yourself, I'm-"

"You really wanted to go." Edgar matched eyes with Scriabin again and saw his lower lip trembling. "You wanted to go more than anything, to go to such a big kid party. To be invited was such an honor for you, even if it was just because you were my little brother. But Granma said you couldn't, we couldn't go. I understood, but you...you didn't."

"Edgar, stop, stop." Scriabin put his hands on his shoulders and shook him but his grip was weak and Edgar refused to move. "You don't need more, you don't need more on top of everything, this, this was all to make less, not more, you don't need to-, you shouldn't-"

Edgar stared at Scriabin with an empty soft smile, and his voice still didn't change. "You and Granma got into a fight...you said you would go anyway. She refused to let you out. You just kept yelling, kept screaming and kept fighting. You told her that it was unfair that she controlled so much of our lives, so much in the name of making us independent, and that we had the right to live our own lives as we saw fit. Her laws did not apply to us, we could decide for ourselves what was right and wrong, and you decided that going to this party was right. You fought, you screamed and yelled at her, and she yelled in return and I sat at the table and watched, because I didn't know who I believed. I didn't know what to believe."

Scriabin shaking him still, tried to speak but his voice caught and he had to keep himself under control. Syllables dissolved in panting breaths, in those moments where a soft frustrated sound spoke of his internal battle against his physical body.

"Then..." Edgar tilted his head slightly. "Then, she just stopped yelling. Grabbed her chest..." He lifted a hand slowly, took hold of the front of his shirt. "Just like that. Began gasping for air. Fell, and you didn't know what to do. I told you to call 911, and you just stood there and stared. I ran to go get the phone, I dialed the number, and when I got back to the kitchen..."

"God no, no Edgar no, I-I don't want to h-hear any more-"

"You were gone...the screen door was open, and it was raining...you were gone. I wanted to go look for you, but I felt like...I felt like I had to wait, to make sure Granma would be okay before I could. So I sat by her side and held her hand, and you...you were gone. They came, and I went to go look for you, I went to go find you I took out that flashlight we used for our shadow puppet shows in our room, I put on Dad's coat and I went out into the rain in the woods out back, and I called for you. I called your name and ran until I couldn't move and I couldn't breathe, and I still called for you."

"Edgar, don't-, don't do this to yourself, I'm not..."

"If I had looked a little further, a little harder...if I had followed you when you first left, if I had gone after you, if I had stopped you arguing, if I had taken a side instead of just standing there, then maybe..."

Edgar looked back at Scriabin, back to their relative reality and saw tears cutting lines through the few remaining patches of dirt across his face. His voice was choked and hard to understand.

"Edgar, I'm not-, I'm not _worth this_-" A heavy sob, and Scriabin let his hands fall from Edgar's shoulders to wrap around his own. "Something like this- don't hurt yourself like this for me-"

Edgar watched Scriabin cry, and his voice didn't change.

"I had to go back...I couldn't go on, so I went back. I would look for you tomorrow, and I did. But you never responded to my voice...I wandered the woods for hours, searching everywhere we used to hide and play, but I couldn't hear you. I went back to everything I could remember, back to all the places that we knew, all the places you could have hid and looked for you, prayed that everywhere I went, there you'd be, waiting for me. I always thought you'd be there, I still hoped when I went and checked the same place for the fifteenth time that somehow...you'd be there that time. I hoped, I kept hoping because I believed...I believed that you would never leave me. You wouldn't leave me like that, you wouldn't leave me alone like that. I believed that nothing could ever happen to you, that nothing could ever happen to us. We had always been together, it felt like we had grown together for so long and so far, and I couldn't think, I couldn't even imagine that you wouldn't...that I couldn't find you. I screamed and screamed for you, I looked everywhere because I knew, I knew I would find you again. I knew that that couldn't be the end, God wouldn't do that to me, to us. I believed...I believed in you. I believed in us."

Edgar's hands weren't otherwise occupied, so he found he was tracing over his fingers, rubbing the smooth surface of his dirty and broken nails, keeping motion.

"I refused...I refused to give up hope for you. You couldn't...you couldn't be gone. You had always been there with me through everything...through every horrible thing in my life you were there, and I always heard your voice. I called out for you, I called out for you to come back to me...to come back, that things would be okay. That everything would be okay, if you would just come back to me...if I could hear your voice again, if I could just know that you were okay. I was lost so many times in the woods for hours, but I never...I don't think I ever really found my way out again. Still calling for you, calling for you to come back..."

Scriabin's voice hitched again and he coughed through his tears, harsh and painful. Edgar's voice kept its same calm tone, the same even speed and cadence unfazed, untouchable. Concrete and real, and while Edgar reached out and touched Scriabin's cheek gently, his expression did not change, and his voice continued. "I felt that...if I could find you, if I knew you were with me...if you were with me, I was never lost. No one knew the woods like you did, no one spent so much time there as you did, and if I could find you...I would never be lost. I would never be lost again. For everything, anything you had ever done to me, anything you would have done in the future, it all would have been forgiven if I could have just seen you again, seen you. Even if you were just playing a game, just hiding from me to make me worry like you used to sometimes...even then, I wouldn't have been angry. I thought...I thought back then that I understood what feeling lonely was like...I thought I knew what it meant to be alone, in any sense of the word, but when I stood there in the forest with a dying flashlight in my father's coat, and I heard the echoes dying around me of your name and still no sign, still no response, I never felt...and I don't think I ever will feel so alone. Lost without you, and I would have given anything, but I couldn't...I tried, but I couldn't look everywhere, and I couldn't spend all day searching for you...I wanted to look until I couldn't do anything at all, until I couldn't move, but I couldn't...I didn't. I didn't, and I went back to make sure Granma was okay. In the end...I couldn't find you. I couldn't find you."

Edgar stared past him now, through him and his voice continued and his eyes were beginning to sting just that little bit. "I couldn't find you...not even when it was too late. It was a neighbor who did what I couldn't...a neighbor who found what had happened to you." Edgar's voice changed just a little, the temporary emotion that had worked through carefully removed. "There was this old concrete ditch in the woods, for a river that they moved somewhere else but it was still there, and we used to go there and hide sometimes, and throw rocks and sticks in the shallow water. I don't know why I didn't look there...why I didn't think of it when I still had a chance...when I could have maybe had time to get help. Somehow I didn't, and they found you there when it was too late...you were running too fast in the dark, trying to get away so badly and you didn't see it, didn't see the edge and you fell."

Scriabin pulled off his glasses and his eyes were shut tight, and it was only a few seconds before his hands covered them again. He cried with the desperation and strength that only children can really accomplish, the deep heaving breaths and pained cries before restraint knew to hold them back. It was an ugly sound but one that spoke universally to human compassion, to the desire deep within to stop whatever was causing this child pain, to help someone who could be suffering so much. "This isn't..." He managed to gasp out between sobs. "This isn't fair...it wasn't fair..."

"They called me...to ask me if it was really my brother that they had found...and I was at home. I wasn't looking for you then, I was at home instead of where I should have been, instead of being where I should have been, to find you myself as it should have gone...instead..." Edgar looked at Scriabin who still had his hands pressed tightly over his eyes.

"It isn't fair, it isn't fair it shouldn't happen that way, it shouldn't have happened that way..."

Edgar closed his eyes. "I ran all the way there...and I saw you...wearing that old sweatshirt that you liked so much, the one that was too big for you...old black jeans that had been hemmed up too often...curled on your side, half in the water and garbage and half not...your hair thick and wet and that little bit of yarn..." Edgar reached out and touched it, held it between his fingertips. He stared at it, saw the tiny hairs that broke off and the fraying over time, and he saw it heavy and weighed down. "That little bit of yarn you stole stood out against the blood..."

Scriabin sobbed with strength he didn't know he had, completely overwhelmed and past the point of words, just overcome with the sensation of crying this hard and with such painful honesty. Edgar let the bit of yarn fall back in place.

"I gave your eulogy...at your funeral. Granma couldn't do it...she blamed herself. I blame myself. There were so many ways I could have prevented it...I could have saved you. It was my fault because...because I know there was some way I could have prevented it, I could have stopped you, I could have done something to save your life and I didn't do it...I didn't act. Granma even told me, she told me to watch out for you, she told me to take care of you because you were all I had, and I couldn't even do that..."

Edgar picked up Scriabin's discarded glasses and folded them, set them to one side.

"I couldn't even do that right, save someone I love. I could have done something, and I didn't. I failed, I failed like I had before, and I promised myself then that I would never fail again. I would never let this happen again, I would never let someone's life...I would never do this, I would never make those mistakes again. It was my fault that it happened, it was my fault and the guilt and responsibility for it have been with me since then, and always will be. And they should be...it was my fault that you died so long ago, Scriabin. It was my fault, and all this time...there was so much I wish we had. So much I wish we could have had, if I had only done something. It was my fault. I killed you, no matter what anyone else says. Everyone tried to tell me otherwise, but I knew...I knew what I had done. I knew the truth...I let you die, and in letting you die, I may as well have pushed you."

Scriabin let his hands fall from his face, and Edgar got a glimpse of something red before he was knocked against the hamper. Scriabin had his arms around him, squeezing tight and his face pressed into his chest, and sometimes his sobs became close enough to words so that Edgar could piece something together.

"Edgar...Edgar, why...why...why are you doing this for me..."

Edgar let his arms return the gesture because he felt that was what he should do, and he still felt numb. So far away and he was just watching, studying what to say and how to say it and staying that distance away that let him make his decisions. "I wanted you to know."

Scriabin shivered violently in his arms, and Edgar found his hand went to run through Scriabin's hair, automatically and without conscious motivation. Logically recognized as a comforting gesture, although all emotion attached to such a thing was not present.

"I miss him," Edgar said to no one in particular. "I miss him so much sometimes. And it was my fault."

"No, no...stop saying that." Scriabin struggled to sound angry, and his grip on Edgar tightened. "Stop saying that, stop saying that, it wasn't your fault. It wasn't all your fault. Please, please, let...don't do this alone."

Edgar stopped, and Scriabin lifted his head to stare at him. Their eyes matched once again, and Scriabin's were swollen and red.

"Don't do this alone." Scriabin sniffled. "Don't..."

"Alone...?" Edgar wondered, and he tried to find his way back into his own body.

"You're always alone, you said so yourself." Scriabin rubbed a hand across his cheeks, tried to keep his voice level and utterly failed. "You're doing this alone now, too. It wasn't all your fault. If...if this happened like you said...it wasn't all your fault. You aren't alone."

Edgar stared and he could envision so clearly, so horribly the last image of Scriabin that really counted, what he considered the last time he had ever really seen him. It wasn't the same, it wasn't him when he was in the coffin, it was something foreign and unreal like how his grandmother wasn't her when he saw her at her funeral.

The real last time he had seen Scriabin was when he was crumpled on his side and the blood and that red yarn, that red yarn was what had hit him in the face, what made it real that this was him, this was really his brother and not some other unfortunate who had fallen into the concrete ditch.

Scriabin stared him, matching eyes, and Edgar let himself visualize it and he remembered, he could see it so clearly that it felt so _real_, it felt present and tangible, that when he saw the small form curled up below that he had nearly fallen in himself in his haste to reach him. He stumbled and scraped his hands and his knees as he half slid, half fell down the concrete incline and when he got close enough to Scriabin's body he remembered screaming something but he wasn't sure if it was a name. He splashed through the water, watched the tendrils of his hair move as the water rippled around him and Edgar sank to his knees in the thick mire and he couldn't reach out to touch him, he couldn't bear to reach out to him but he could see the blood and damage from where he was, he could see where Scriabin had fallen headlong and hit the concrete at just the wrong angle from such a height, and he was always such a small boy, and Edgar remembered staring helplessly and feeling equally dead until he caught sight of Scriabin's broken glasses nearby and then he wasn't just screaming, he was crying hysterically. Frantic laughter and broken words and tears that kept coming and eventually all attempts at locking feelings into words failed and he howled beside his body, the first and last time he ever let himself feel so much and so close.

He shook his head slightly, returned back to their relative reality, and Scriabin was crying again, his face hidden against his chest and his arms still wrapped tightly around Edgar, and Edgar finally found that the stinging in his eyes had gotten too strong, too much and he found that he was crying as well. Sharing again, unintentional or not he wasn't sure. The visual he knew was burned into Scriabin's memory now, as it was to him. It was the details, the details that really gave it the potential, the ability to sear into consistency, into desperate justification perceived to be necessary. The emotion connected to it mixed between the two of them, merged and changed and Edgar wasn't sure how to respond, what was real and he went through his mental checklist of how to stop himself from crying.

"It's not real..." Scriabin mumbled, muffled by his shirt and he shuddered, and Edgar held him as tightly as he could, held onto the warm body beside him until his arms shook and he refused to say anything, refused to make any sound as despite his best efforts, tears fell from tightly closed eyes. It was almost a question. "It's not real...it's all pretend..."

At that point, Edgar wasn't sure what he believed anymore. He had reality in his arms, the one thing that had remained constant here so far, and he held onto him. This at least would not change, not now. Every flash of that image his mind had created or remembered made him hold him closer. Scriabin fit against him, fit within his arms as though it was his place, where he belonged, and Edgar's back pressed against the hamper and he struggled through internal pain he could no longer differentiate from reality or fantasy and ownership was totally out of the question.

"She was right, you know..." Edgar's voice shook, and he tried to laugh. "Family will always be there for you."

"Almost always." Scriabin's voice muffled, and he kept his face hidden.

His weeping slowed to the occasional heaving breath and soft pathetic sounds. Still the same amount of pain, but the energy to express that was fading, exhaustion taking hold. Edgar kept his arms around him, held onto him.

"Why..." Scriabin whispered. "Why...why did I have to die like that?"

Edgar thought for a few seconds, let the images flick through his mind.

"Because when I lost you...when I lost you that day...so long ago, when you stopped talking and I was really alone...it was a tragedy. Your death...was a tragedy."

"It's not real..."

"Maybe."

"Don't give me that." Scriabin weakly hit Edgar's chest with one fist. "You know if it was real or not. You know that it, it isn't. It wasn't. It didn't happen that way. It didn't..."

"Does it matter?"

Scriabin stopped and stared into the distance, breathing softly in Edgar's arms.

"What it means...maybe it did happen that way. Who can say for sure? But that's not what's important, is it?"

"What it means..."

"Why."

"For...for me..."

Edgar rubbed Scriabin's back, and he smiled weakly.

"A little."

Scriabin looked up at him and punched him again, this time with a bit more force.

"Jerk."

The reluctant smile on his face kept Edgar's arms where they were.

"We're always connected." Edgar looked up at the off-white ceiling, and felt Scriabin's head settle back on his chest. "When you died...I was never the same again."

"But..." Scriabin rubbed his head against Edgar's chest for a few seconds, as if to wipe something off his cheek. "But I'm here now, right?"

Edgar looked back down, and saw Scriabin looking up at him. His glasses were back and were slightly askew, still reflective but around the glimpses of his own face, he could catch sight of reddened eyes that didn't quite match his own. His face was red, covered with small bandages, and that little bit of hair with that red bit of yarn was stuck to his cheek.

Edgar brushed some of the hair away from Scriabin's forehead, and he lifted his knees up, bringing Scriabin closer to him. Scriabin made a soft surprised sound, completely appropriate and endearing for a child his age. With a strange kind of ease, Edgar rested his chin on Scriabin's head, pressed to his chest, and his arms encircled him, trapped him.

"That's right...you're here now...and that's what counts, I guess."

A few seconds and their breathing fell into a rhythm, matched, and he could hear Scriabin's heartbeat and was sure that Scriabin heard the same. The house creaked a little, settled, and he heard the dim tap of rain beginning to fall against the roof.

He sat there and listened to the rain beginning to fall harder, spatter against the windows, and felt the warm living child in his arms, frail and small and familiar, and for a second there was this sense of clarity, of all the hidden motivations and metaphors all becoming clear, defenses dropped and he understood.

"And this...this is what you wanted all along, isn't it?"

Scriabin didn't say anything at first. Then he gently nuzzled Edgar's chest, and said in a soft voice, "this is what _we_ wanted."

And Edgar wasn't sure he could disagree. His brother let out a soft, contented sigh.

"I knew it..."

_I knew it..._

A crack of thunder that shook the room, and Edgar sat up straight in bed with a deep gasp.

Momentarily panicked, he looked everywhere for some sign of where he was. His skin felt sticky and his sheets too thick, and he found the room surprisingly dark. His alarm clock was off, and he looked to his wrist automatically.

His watch was missing...

Edgar stared at his hand for a few seconds, noticed his longer fingers, thinner palms, a small scar at the top of his wrist from an embarrassingly mundane accident with a car door. He brought his other hand up to join the first, found them both clean and free of any bruises, blood, or grass stains.

Slowly ran his hands over his chest, his face, felt himself breathing deep and frantic.

A dream...

Still felt sticky and hot and generally unpleasant, and God it was humid in his room all of a sudden. What time was it? The question kept buzzing through his mind, insistent and worrying. What time was it?

Where did he put his watch?

He felt around on his dresser blindly, not acclimated to the dark just yet, and he couldn't feel the action figure that had been there so long.

Scriabin.

_Scriabin!_

No response at first, and Edgar felt around on his desk frantically, as if finding his watch would solve everything. He did find his glasses and he put them on, but his watch still eluded him, and nothing in response...

_Scriabin, are you okay? Are you awake? Where are you?_

He opened the drawer of his dresser and began to search through his clothes, pairs of socks falling to the floor and still no watch, he still couldn't find it.

_Scriabin! _Desperate for a response, and he found a deep sense of isolation he had never wanted to feel again. _Scriabin, please...!_

He shut the drawer and felt around the floor, thinking that perhaps it had fallen off his dresser at some point. Then he felt familiar plastic underneath his fingers, warm and smooth. He breathed a sigh of relief, picked up the action figure with both hands. At times he had been tossing in his sleep, flailed his arms and that must have been what had knocked him down...

He put it back on the desk, but he still felt anxious and worried. He wanted to know what time it was, and he wanted...

_Oh God, please, please...not again..._

Maybe Scriabin was still asleep. That had to be it. He ran a hand beneath his bed quickly then forced himself to be more thorough.

_Not again, not again..._

There, he finally felt something. He grabbed his watch and pulled it out, realized that it was no good to him if he had no light to read it by. He stood and walked over to the light switch and flicked it on. No light flooded his room, although a few seconds later a bolt of lightning outside did the job admirably, if temporarily. Enough for him to catch that it was seven something, and he guessed it would be somewhere in the AM. He had fallen asleep at a reasonable time the other night.

_Scriabin..._

_I..._ A deep rush of relief, and maybe that was what caused Scriabin to pause as he did. _I-I'm here._

_Thank God..._

A moment of awkwardness, of Edgar grasping for details from his dream that were already slipping away from him. Should he have said that? God, what had happened, exactly? He didn't want to forget, but it was fading the more he thought about it...

_I'm here._

_Good..._

An extremely awkward pause, and Edgar looked at his watch compulsively despite the fact he couldn't read it, and then the rumble of thunder followed its faster brother.

_God, if it's seven...I probably have to go to work..._

_Edgar, about..._

_What?_

_About...about that, um..._ Edgar couldn't recall when he had ever heard Scriabin stumble over his words like this. _About that...dream..._

And it was just a dream...

_Yeah?_

_How much...did you really have a brother? When you were younger?_

Edgar stood there for a few seconds, then sat on his bed. He fastened his watch in the dark, listened to the sound of the rain outside, and he sat there.

_Edgar...?_

Edgar looked over at the action figure on his dresser. He ran a hand through his hair.

_You would know, wouldn't you?_

A pause, and Edgar decided to get dressed. It took a while for Scriabin to speak again.

_I...so you've just been hiding it, all this time?_ He sounded anything but sure. _You've just internalized and, and..._ Gradually sounding more confident, older. _Just taken that specific pain and broadened it, applied it to so many other things so that it didn't have a real source, then you locked it away...didn't want to think about it anymore, so you erased it, locked it away from me. No wonder you wouldn't tell me, you're always giving yourself these pointless guilt trips over nothing, and you probably thought I'd attack you for it. Just use that to pity yourself, that's stupid._

The tone in his voice made Edgar smile and shake his head slightly.

_Isn't that right? You're always so focused on being alone and never trusted me or anyone to help you, and you always just kept it to yourself because you assumed that you'd be able to handle it, that you could handle it on your own. Bearing your own cross as always, fah. No wonder you never told me. It's nothing to be ashamed of, Edgar, honestly._

Edgar still smiled and he buttoned up his shirt. _You got me. That's exactly why I didn't tell you._

It was so obviously a lie, a lie on both sides, but it bridged that awkward gap between the two, and while it was shallow and thin as paper, it was enough. It served its purpose. So many questions all answered, and that settled that for now.

And why not, it wasn't like anyone was being hurt by it...anyone important...

He briefly caught a flash of something like pride from Scriabin, perhaps contentment, at Edgar's lie. The illusion they refused to let go of.

_Are you still going to work?_

_Yeah, I was planning on it._

_Take the day off._

_What?_ Edgar narrowed his eyes for a bit, found himself searching for their familiar battleground, their stances long established over countless months of interaction. A pointless bickering argument, their specialty, and the fact that Edgar found it soothing, normal, solid and concrete in a world that still seemed haunted by the shreds of his dreams...

_Take the day off._ His tone admonishing, and he just as easily slipped into his own position. _You're exhausted._

_I just slept for...God knows how long. I'm not tired._

_You are so tired. You don't even know how tired you really are. Do I have to remind you who's got the direct line to your emotions here?_

_Oh, didn't see that coming._ Edgar rolled his eyes. _That's your answer to everything._

_Maybe that's because it's true. You listen to me and you get some rest today. You hear me? Call your work...shit, don't call them. In fact, fuck your work. Go do something nice for yourself. You just went through a lot of pain-_

_Yeah, I'll just tell my boss to go fuck himself. I'm sure that'll go over real well._ Edgar pulled on a sock. _Money has to come from somewhere, and if I skip days randomly I don't think they'll be inclined to keep me employed-_

_It's one day!_ Scriabin said with exaggerated irritation. _Just one day! For once in your life, Edgar, take a day off and do something nice for yourself! Do something YOU want to do!_

_One of the facts about living an adult life is that you can't go and do whatever you want._ Edgar pulled on his other sock.

_You never did anything you wanted as a child, and now as an adult you still can't do anything you want? You're still trapped by all your imagined responsibilities? God, Edgar! When WILL you have any freedom?_

Argument traveling into deeper territory. _I'm sorry if this comes as a shock, but people have responsibilities regardless of age-_

"Bullshit!"

Edgar blinked and turned to the action figure. That was the first time Scriabin had spoken through it without Edgar's physical prompt...

There was a pause as Edgar was sure that the same thought went through Scriabin's mind. "Shit. Edgar, listen to me..."

"You've never done that before-"

"Well, I'm fucking upset, okay? Shit." Deeply resentful, and Edgar was almost sure it was self-directed. "If you don't take it now, you'll never have it. If you don't take care of yourself, who will?"

"And what, losing my job is taking care of myself?"

"That's not what I meant and you know it." Edgar glanced outside at the pouring rain, and made a note to complain about the shoddy power lines. These blackouts were too frequent. Still dark and too hot in this room, too humid. "Fulfilling what others require of you, doing what everyone else wants, surviving is not taking care of yourself. Not the way that I mean."

"I can't take care of myself if I have no money, can I-"

"For god fucking- god's...goddamn Edgar, go do something nice for yourself today, Christ."

"And why such sudden interest in what I do, anyway?"

A short pause. His voice was low.

"You know why."

Awkward pause this time. Edgar looked down at the carpet, and he knew that Scriabin felt just as uncomfortable as he did. Acknowledged as fact, relatively, but it was still difficult to talk about.

Quick to fill the empty spaces. "So that's why I want you to do something nice for yourself. That d...that dream...it took a lot out of...a lot out of you. I don't think you know how much..." Sounded guarded and almost distracted. "But I do, and trust me, you need to take it easy today. Make yourself feel good."

"Trust you. Fah."

"Think about it...when was the last time you ever did something because you wanted to? Because it felt good? How long have you denied the sins of the flesh, so to speak?"

"The fact that every time I want to do something you constantly jump down my throat about this and that and what it means and who I am and I'm doing it all wrong, all of that makes me just a bit wary, you understand."

"Change..." Soft word not particularly directed at him, but still intended for him to hear. Edgar ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath.

"I don't know if I'm ready for this..." He shook his head. "Maybe this isn't really a good thing at all. Maybe this is a bad sign..."

Testing him, testing to see if his maturity was really affected by the dream's age limit, to see how much he was willing to risk, sacrifice...

"I don't...think so, necessarily." Hesitant and somewhat uneasy. "It's...it does signify a rather...large change, but it doesn't have to be all at once. I mean...right now, we were talking like we did before, weren't we? Arguing, I mean. Things have changed...heh, again. But we can handle it. I have confidence that we can."

Still couldn't let go. Edgar wasn't alone.

"For someone who claims to be a pessimist, you have a lot of faith in me." Edgar stood up with a sigh, and walked out of his room.

Scriabin was silent, and as Edgar got himself a glass of water, he tried to get a better look at what time it was. Still fairly dark. If it was morning, then this was a fairly intense rainstorm, to cover the sky so completely. Barely light, and it might as well have been night. He drank warm tap-water and he caught small pieces of what Scriabin was feeling. He wasn't good at it just yet, still a new ability he hadn't completely explored, but the line between them was gradually opening further, and the glimpses he caught were more than enough to help him, at least give him a general idea of what was going on. He tried to put a mental picture to the general uncomfortableness he could feel, and the strong image of Scriabin as the seven year old boy came to mind, dressed in clothes too large with his hands pressed near his chest, looking down and shuffling his feet.

He shook his head, forced it away, felt Scriabin doing much the same thing in his own way. He wondered if Scriabin saw himself as Edgar saw him, or if he had his matching mirror image of his supposed older brother, staring at him with a look of pride and superiority at the same time.

_God, this complicates things._

_Yeah._ He expected more, but apparently that was all Scriabin wanted to say.

His head hurt a little, and he put the glass back in the sink. _This complicates things a lot._

_Yeah._ Edgar headed to the bathroom for a quick shower. Scriabin's voice came quick and soft. _Don't go to work today. Take the day off._

_I don't have a vacation day._

_Take the goddamn day off._

_I don't know if I should..._

There, weakness, and Scriabin knew it'd only be a matter of time before Edgar gave in.

_Just do it. Go ahead. What difference does it make? Just do what you want today, do what makes you feel good._

_Like what?_ Edgar studied his face in the mirror, made a note to shave.

Scriabin thought for a few seconds, hummed to himself. Then he snapped his fingers. It took Edgar a few seconds to wonder as to how he could do that exactly. _I know. I know exactly what you need right now._

_What?_

_You need a taco._

_A taco?_ Edgar half-laughed, half-choked. _A taco, I haven't had one of those in years-_

_Exactly,_ Scriabin said with satisfaction. _Exactly my point, my boy._

Back to that again. Edgar was wondering when the diminutive would come back into play. Scriabin could never stray from it for long, particularly when he was trying to pressure Edgar into doing or believing something.

_I don't even know if that taco place is still open-_

_Does the place really even matter? Have you ever thought about why you haven't had a taco in so long? Do you wonder about that?_

_Not really, no. It's just a taco._

_Just a taco. Cha. Interesting, that when she died you stopped going there. Do you not feel confident rewarding yourself for your own actions?_

_It's not that, it's just...it felt weird to go there alone. We always went there together._

_She gave them to you. Can't you give them to yourself?_

_It's just a taco-_

_You know this is about more than that._

_Fine._ Edgar rolled his eyes again as he shed his clothes and stepped into the shower. _I just...it's been too long. I don't even know if I like tacos anymore._

_You do. I know you do. Why not do it, Edgar? Why not go out and have a taco today and relax? You know how they make you feel, and I bet you anything that they still make you feel that way today._

_I don't know..._

_Just for once, Edgar, take control of yourself. Of your life. No one will reward you anymore, no one will punish you. It's up to you to do both of those things. You've done a lot of punishing as of late, and I can hardly fault you for that, god knows, but you haven't done any...any rewarding at all, not that I can see. The closest is sleeping in, and that's pathetic compared to the agonies you put yourself through every day, for yourself and Johnny and your religion and Gran's memory and me-_

He caught a tinge of surprise, regret, and Scriabin felt, worried that he had gone too far. Transgressed the boundaries when Edgar was at a particularly fragile state, and by all rights he should have been worried. Earlier times when Scriabin had dug too quickly, too powerfully at the truth, Edgar had done something that didn't exactly help the situation.

This time, Edgar let the water beat over his body, and he didn't say anything. He listened.

_Stop hurting yourself._ Scriabin's tone softened, and Edgar was aware of what emotions he was trying to resurrect with his wording. _Stop hurting yourself for once. Do something nice, do something that will make you feel good. Get a taco._

_I'm not hungry._

_Shut up and go get one._

_I...I don't know if I really deserve a taco-_

_Fuck you._

And somehow, that was a compelling argument. Edgar dropped his weak protest, and found there was something else...

_Can I trust you?_

_...What?_

_If I go do something that I want for once, will you let me? I'm not the only one who punishes me for what I do. You know that. Can I trust you?_

Edgar stepped out of the shower and grabbed a towel.

_Of course._ Scriabin spoke with simple honesty, and Edgar heard that before not too long ago, from much younger vocal cords. _I..._

_That's right..._ Edgar toweled off his hair, and went to go get dressed properly. _That's right, you want them too._

A moment of hesitation, the temptation to debate and disagree and argue and mock, and Scriabin did none of these. Instead, he made a soft "mmhmm" sound that had none of his usual sarcasm in it, and Edgar was relieved that he hadn't been mistaken after all.

Shirt, jeans, and he knew that it would be cooler outside than in. He found his black trench coat on the floor, discarded from his previous trips outside that he couldn't exactly remember, and he threw it on with practiced grace.

_Any place will do, really...I think so, anyway._

Edgar walked over to his dresser and picked up the action figure carefully, with both hands. He stared at it for a few seconds, then he slid it into his pocket.

_I'll call in sick when I get home._

Emotion strong enough to be felt fairly clearly, and Scriabin was somewhere between satisfaction and anticipation, excitement, and Edgar found that in the face of his enthusiasm, suddenly so childlike and familiar, that he felt the same way.

An hour or so later, Edgar sat in a booth by himself with a single taco and a large, watered-down soda.

_What kind of freak puts ketchup on a taco. You're hopeless._ Completely harmless little jab, obligatory and understood. Scriabin felt happy, satisfied, and he knew that.

So did he.


	22. Mirror

Edgar took a maximum of four steps out of the taco place with his good mood relatively intact.

"Hey!"

Edgar stopped, became intimately aware of the rain running down the nape of his neck, and turned to try and locate the source of the call. A female voice, something vaguely familiar...something twinged deep, in a way that Edgar knew somehow but hard to define.

_Hmm..._

A hand on his shoulder, and Edgar turned around to come face to face with Devi and, in the process, nearly poked his eye out on the spokes of her umbrella.

"Agh-"

"Ah, wait-"

Edgar raised a hand to his eye although it was unnecessary and took a few steps back. Devi raised her umbrella a little and angled it away to give them more space.

Now that he had a good look at it...

"That's an absolutely hideous umbrella."

Edgar had no idea what possessed him to say such a thing, regardless of its truth. He didn't know yellow even _came_ in that shade. Scriabin made some kind of muffled snickering sound in his mind, and Devi met Edgar's eyes without smiling.

"You. I've been looking all over for you."

Edgar stared at her for a few seconds and again, against his better judgment, he shrugged and said in a rather confused tone, "...Why?"

"Because you know what's going on. You have something to do with what's happening, and I intend to find out the truth. We're going to talk and you're going to tell me everything you know."

A moment of relative silence, hissing rain and the occasional rush of a car passing by. They stared at one another, and Edgar heard something very soft in the back of his mind, a kind of mumbling.

_What are you doing?_

No real response.

"In that case, want to go someplace for coffee then?" Edgar took hold of his shoulders to emphasize their current situation. "Someplace warm, at least."

Devi stared at him suspiciously for a few minutes, then looked over his entire body.

_Probably checking for weaponry._ Scriabin sounded distracted. He was doing something rather engrossing, whatever it was.

"Fine. But I still want to know what's going on."

"Well really, so do I." Edgar smiled in a disarming way and kept his hands in his pockets. Devi didn't take her eyes off of him for a second as the two of them made their way to a nearby small café. Recently renovated and reopened, and something about that reminded Edgar of something, something very old, but he wasn't sure what it was. Probably unimportant. "I'm afraid I'm just as confused as you are..."

"You know who I am." A statement.

"Yeah, we met at the bookstore. You said your name was Devi."

"Mmhmm. And you're Edgar."

"Yeah..." Found a place to sit, as closed off as one could get considering. Badly lit in a way that seemed intentional, glass lamp covers streaked with dark paint in patterns that Edgar was sure were artistic, although it didn't seem that way to him. He guessed that maybe he wasn't the right kind of person to appreciate it. The café was filled with cigarette smoke and a scent that Edgar couldn't readily identify.

_Cloves,_ Scriabin provided, and Edgar shrugged. Didn't matter either way. Really, there shouldn't have been anyone smoking in the café at all, but it seemed greater numbers won out against authority here.

They sat across from one another and Devi continued to stare at him intently, like she was pulling him apart with her eyes.

_Lovely imagery, my boy. Just lovely._

Well, if she wouldn't say something first, then it was up to him.

"So...what do you want to know?" Edgar shed his sodden coat and set it to one side. The air was cold on his arms, but he at least felt a little drier this way. He could smell the distinct scent of wet clothing, not terribly offensive but still noticeable and Edgar shivered just slightly automatically, felt the hairs on his arms rise to try and trap heat. Devi kept her coat on, but then again, she had an umbrella. She was probably not quite as soaked as Edgar was. "I have to warn you, I don't know much about this myself-"

"When you walked into the bookstore, I got a splitting headache." Devi's tone was dead serious. Edgar let his smile fade, although he didn't think about doing it. The intensity of her stare was almost unnerving, but while Edgar couldn't look away, he didn't feel trapped. "Like someone closing a clamp on my head. This gradual squeezing pressure. It started small when you first came in, but when you came up to the counter, it got worse. A lot worse. It was definitely triggered by you, I'm sure of it. Now...something weird is happening to me." Tone distinctly guarded. "The important thing is that whatever it is that's going on, you made it worse. There's something about you, or you're connected to this somehow. Tell me how."

Edgar rested an arm on the table, his head on his other hand. He made a thoughtful sound. "Interesting. So it's a kind of pressure for you, huh...for me, I just felt sick and dizzy." Smiled and it felt natural. "Doesn't quite compare, I don't think."

_Edgar, you're..._ Scriabin sounded genuinely confused. _You're...pleasant._

Edgar made an irritated noise in his mind, causing Scriabin to rush his words to cover it up.

_Pleasant as in, the way you're interacting with another human being. You aren't shaking or stammering or rubbing the skin off your hands. Your voice is different too. It's warmer, in a way. You're acting very different._

_Is that so?_ Edgar felt satisfied in an odd way that he had confused Scriabin like this, and he felt some kind of pride at the complimentary nature of Scriabin's comments. _It's probably because I'm not nervous._

_Don't think she'll kill you, eh?_

Now that he brought it up, Edgar realized that he had no fear of Devi, no apprehension of any kind around her. It was a strange and unwarranted level of comfort, familiarity, that seemed misplaced for how little they knew of each other and the short period of time they had interacted. There was something here, some kind of buffer or common ground, that made Devi seem completely non-threatening, a real person rather than a potential enemy.

No wonder Scriabin would have been confused...Edgar hadn't felt comfortable around another person since...well, since he met Johnny.

_That'd make anyone nervous over time. But no, I don't think she will. Might as well stay calm and think rationally, and be friendly. It pays to be polite, in the end._

_My, that sounds familiar. Isn't that why you're here in the first place, and those two lovely gashes still grace your cheekbones?_

Edgar decided to ignore Scriabin in favor of the conversation at hand. Devi had been waiting patiently for him to elaborate, or so he guessed was the motivation for her silence.

"I got dizzy when I got close to you...very dizzy. It was kind of like when..." Edgar wasn't sure if he wanted to bring up the Scriabin toy. He barely knew Devi, and it would be easy to scare her off if he started talking about action figures that had to be in the exact right position in his apartment, otherwise... "Like when something very important's out of place. Missing or moved. I felt off-balance, kind of sick and dizzy. No headache, but it was very unpleasant regardless."

"Did you know you were doing it?"

Her tone still somewhat serious, the general impression given by her voice and expression of two scientists working on a joint project.

"I didn't think I was doing anything." Edgar shrugged amiably, and Devi raised an eyebrow. "I didn't connect it to anything. I thought maybe it was just me."

"What, do you often feel dizzy and sick?" Devi asked with a smile and a skeptical look, and Edgar tilted his head. She seemed to be warming up to him...

"First time for everything right? It wouldn't be the first time things in my life took an abruptly weird turn..."

Devi looked at him for a moment, suspicion softened and he got the impression that she was grateful to him in some way. It was hard to identify other people's emotions, as he hadn't gotten a great deal of practice, but that was some kind of gratitude, he was sure...

Had to guess, extrapolate. He hadn't done this in a while. Weird things...maybe her life had also, recently, gotten very strange, and she was glad to know that she wasn't alone. Something like that.

"Yeah...me too." She looked down at the table. So he wasn't that far off. "But I know- knew it wasn't just me that did that. It wasn't just me, things are getting weird but they aren't _that_ weird, thank God." Devi rested a hand against her forehead. Thin fingers with black nail polish, flaking and chipping. "I don't understand...why would you react that way to me? Have we ever met before? Do we have anything at all in common?"

_What To Do When Your Spouse is Irredeemably Insane-_

_Shut up._

"Why is it that we do that, we have this...opposite attraction? You know, like magnets. I mean, you don't seem like a bad guy so far. Why do we have this weird..." Struggling for a more eloquent word. "I don't know, this weird..."

Edgar waited for a few seconds for her to find her word, then decided that he should probably continue. "We're here together right now...how do you feel?"

She sighed. "Got the general bass drum headache, but it hasn't gotten as bad as it did that one time. That was the worst it's ever been."

Edgar wasn't sure if that time in the bookstore was the worst for him, but more importantly, at the moment he didn't feel sick or dizzy at all. He felt perfectly fine, and if Devi still had a headache...

"Hmm..."

"But yeah, whatever it is doesn't like you, for some reason."

"Whatever it is?" Edgar stared at her for a few more seconds, then his voice snapped back to internal.

_Scriabin!_

A short, brusque command and Scriabin bristled automatically, instinctual rebellion.

_What?_ A mocking, sarcastic response.

_What did you do to her?_

If Edgar hadn't sounded so angry, perhaps the conversation wouldn't have followed his lead.

_Oh, it's always my fault._ Scriabin heaved an exaggerated sigh. _If you remember correctly, I was the one telling you to get away from her. What did you do to her, boy?_

There was something more insulting about just being called "boy" rather than the typical "my boy," whether Scriabin knew it or not, and Edgar found his mood and tone did not improve. _Are you saying this is my fault? I didn't jump into her head and start doing a drum solo, okay? I think you know as well as I do that there's only one of us that could even possibly-_

_You think I could do that?_ Scriabin's voice growing louder, now equally as offended, and Edgar recognized Scriabin trying to dominate his attention, make all of his energy and effort focus on him. Block out the entire world until all he could hear was his voice...Scriabin trying to monopolize his attention while he was here, right here with someone else, didn't he realize the consequences? _You think that I can just jump brains whenever I want? Shit, if I could do that, why the hell would I still be with you?_

There was a deep insult in Scriabin's last sentence that hurt more than Edgar wanted it to, and Edgar found himself wanting to hurt Scriabin right back.

_Oh, like you want to leave._

_You think I wouldn't? You think I don't?_ Bright flash of fury from Scriabin that easily overpowered Edgar's own emotions and thoughts. He was surprised at the sudden rage that he had definitely not anticipated. Scriabin usually was much harder to provoke...apparently Edgar had found a particularly painful topic. _You think I wouldn't leave this stupid shithole if I could? God, how fucking arrogant are you! Christ almighty, Edgar, this isn't a fucking Ritz hotel! Being with you, for lack of a better word, sucks. The minute I can get out of you, one way or another, I'm going to. If I had the chance, you'd never see me again. I'd never look back. Wouldn't you be sorry then, you dick._

He thought for a minute of backing down, then he looked at Devi, who stared at the table with a hand pressed to her head.

_So, would you take that bit of red yarn in your hair with you?_

A moment of silence, then Scriabin hissed at him, much like a cat would at a predator. It was long and strange, a response that Edgar hadn't been expecting and wasn't sure how to respond to.

Slow words finally, emphasized with loathing. _Fuck. You._

"-gar? Edgar? Edgar, hey!" Fingers snapping, and Edgar brought himself back to the real world. He realized that she must have been repeating his name for the last few minutes.

"I'm sorry." Edgar shook his head. "I do that sometimes."

_I'll show you._ The way he said this made the threat very real. _I'll fucking show you._

Edgar knew ignoring Scriabin would perhaps be the best way to handle their argument and definitely be the best way to piss Scriabin off further. And if Scriabin really was responsible for hurting Devi, or was somehow involved and just never told him...

Edgar shook his head again. "Um, I don't know how much I can explain about what's going on...maybe if we pool our knowledge we can figure it out from there. Um...when did this start happening to you? I mean, when was the first time you remembered ever feeling...off? Maybe it happened to us at the same time. It's a start."

Devi brushed a hand over her head, then ran it along one of her pigtails. She rubbed the end of it between two fingers, stared at the table. She had an expression of grim intent, and in a way Edgar felt slightly intimidated.

"I guess...it would have been after my date with Johnny."

"Johnny?" Edgar kept his face neutral as he began to connect pieces, try to form something from the strands.

_After you met Johnny, you started feeling strange...after I met him, Scriabin started talking...something about him, something about him or his house or, or maybe the system that had a hold of him must have...done something. Done something to..._ Edgar blinked. _Done something to us..._

"Yeah." Devi let the end of her pigtail fall back into place. A short pause and then she laughed without humor. "Let's just say it didn't end well."

_You...maybe you're in the same boat as me. Maybe you're a lock too._

Scriabin grumbled in the back of Edgar's head, distant and annoyed. Edgar considered asking him whether what he wanted to do was a good idea, then found that he still felt somewhat irritated at his attitude. For all of the closeness that Scriabin wanted between the two of them, he didn't want it enough to be honest with him, even in dreams. Sure, he wanted it enough so that he expected _Edgar_ to care, to know, to be honest, to apparently be telepathic and understand what he wanted all the time, but not enough to do the same in return.

Now that this had been brought to his attention, he wished he could say he was surprised that Scriabin had lied to him about Devi, or at the least hidden information about her from him. And of course, Edgar would never learn why he did this because Scriabin never revealed his motivation behind doing anything. Even with the dream they had just shared, their joint childhood, Edgar had to put together what he thought Scriabin really wanted from all the tangled metaphors and lies, and all he had that pointed to his conclusion being correct was that Scriabin hadn't yelled at him about it. After all they went through, everything he pulled from between and under words and tone and expressions and he still wasn't sure that was everything.

Scriabin never told him everything, anything, and frankly Edgar was getting tired of it.

He wished he had paid more attention when he had first met Devi, thought more about what had happened, as now he could only remember bits and pieces of what Scriabin had said, and how he felt. Scriabin told him not to talk to her...and if he remembered correctly, that was the first time Scriabin swore at him.

There were vital pieces missing here and Edgar had a feeling that some of those holes were Scriabin's fault. He looked at Devi, who was still staring intently down at the table. Maybe thinking about her options as well, he wasn't sure.

He still felt no fear around her, and if she really was in the same position that he was, he wanted to do everything he could to help her. Devi seemed like...well, it seemed too soon to say nice, exactly. But he did want to help, in some way or another, and it felt more specific than any other kind of general human altruism. He wasn't entirely familiar with it, but he didn't think there was anything wrong or strange about it.

She brushed her hand against her face again, black nails against skin gone quite pale, and he noticed the bags beneath her eyes. Looked like she didn't sleep much...

A perfect opportunity for Scriabin to jump in, but he remained stubbornly silent.

Frustration and anger. Scriabin was making him wait, but now he thought harder about exactly what he was waiting for. What he knew would come and why. Inevitable pain...punishment. He shouldn't have to anticipate, he shouldn't have to wait for the inevitable blow, he shouldn't expect it. God, he shouldn't expect, fear him as much as he did, this...

An unsettling thought struck, made him pause.

This authority figure...

With this strange ease around Devi, this desire to actually remain in her company for whatever reason, it became clear to Edgar that while he felt nervous around Johnny, he was increasingly becoming nervous around Scriabin as well. Easy to forget in the fantasy world of dreams, but now that he could think back on everything, try and keep everything in mind, he found that Scriabin was using his anger as a tool, using Edgar's fear of punishment to leverage him into doing things that he wanted...

The unsettling thought of their joint childhood being another kind of manipulation by Scriabin crossed his mind, and Edgar forced it away. He didn't want to believe that, not right now. Maybe in the future it would be more of an issue, but he wanted to believe that last night, for once, wasn't designed, created, to hurt him in the end. He wanted to trust Scriabin at least that much, to have at least that modicum of faith in him.

That did not mean he had any faith in him about anything else, particularly now about Devi, and the fact that Scriabin seemed to expect this new faith, this new trust, and had done little to earn it, just...

Edgar maybe wouldn't have felt so resentful if he couldn't catch the snippets of Scriabin's emotions towards him, all of which were negative.

If Scriabin wouldn't tell him everything...then Edgar was going to do something different.

"Listen...this isn't going to get us anywhere unless we're honest with each other." Edgar took a deep breath, kept his voice calm and focused. Devi looked up to meet his eyes, once again suspicious. "I have a feeling that we're both in rather serious situations, and the...headaches and such are just the tip of the iceberg. I think if we tell each other everything we know, maybe we can figure something out. I'm going to tell you what happened to me, and I'm going to try and be honest about it. I know some parts are going to sound unbelievable..."

Devi nodded, and Scriabin was still silent. He focused a bit harder, tried his hand at touching base with Scriabin in some way, and he could catch faint strains of doubt. Scriabin didn't think Edgar would do it.

Fine.

"I was...hmm." Edgar thought carefully, planned out his words, and Devi waited. "Some time ago...I can't remember exactly when, it's probably been months by now, but some time ago, I was abducted. I can't remember from where, and I can't remember how it happened, but I was kidnapped by a man who intended to kill me so he could use my blood to paint a wall."

Devi stared at Edgar very hard, and he caught her nails digging into the surface of the table.

"He, um, described himself as insane, and I had no reason to doubt him...I tried to talk him out of it, and in the process he became somewhat fond of me, I think that was how he phrased it." Edgar smiled softly. "Enough so that he didn't want me to die, in the end. His name was Johnny, but he said his friends called him Nny."

Edgar stopped to try and gauge Devi's reaction. She had turned her gaze to the table and her white knuckles, and small tremors began from her hands and moved up her arms.

"Fuck," she said simply.

"It was luck that got me out...nothing more. A slight change, something missing, and I wouldn't be here now. But luck got me out, and then after that..." Edgar took a deep breath. "If I had known at the time...but I can't use that to avoid responsibility for what I did. Nny called me and asked me if he should ask out this girl that he liked at a bookstore..."

"Oh my God..." Devi pulled one hand from the table and watched the blood come back into her shaking fingers. "Oh my God, so it was..."

"If I knew...if I had known he would listen to me...well, I can't say that, exactly." Edgar sighed and rubbed his upper arms. "Maybe he would have asked you anyway, but that's still not exactly fair. I don't want to shirk my responsibility for this."

Scriabin had yet to make any comment, and Edgar found this increasingly suspicious. There was no way that he would pass up a chance like this to belittle Edgar for his failings, even so early on, but nothing. What he felt were his own emotions, he was fairly sure, and to dig deep enough to find Scriabin's would take too long.

Being honest about your troubles was supposed to lighten the burden, he'd heard. Edgar still felt just as heavy as ever, but in a way that was hard to describe, he didn't want to stop talking about them.

"I knew that he was insane...and I knew that he intended to murder me, and that he'd probably murder you too. Some part of me wants to say I was optimistic...that I thought that he wouldn't hurt someone he loved." Edgar found his hand near his face and actually jerked a bit when his fingers touched his skin. He didn't remember moving his hand, but his fingers settled over the deadened skin around the scars beneath his eyes. "To be honest, and I am being completely honest here...he called me at an ungodly time of night, and I wasn't exactly awake...I think I said something about how he must have really liked you, to not want to kill you. When he trapped me at first, we ended up talking about humanity in general...Nny doesn't have a very positive view of it, but you probably already know that."

"No sane person would." Devi had her head in her hands.

"He likes so few people...I didn't think you'd get hurt. But...you know, again. Maybe it's that one thing...luck, or fate. I'm not sure." Edgar wanted to say God's Plan, but despite her crucifix earrings, Edgar felt fairly sure that Devi would not be interested. "But...he tried to kill you, didn't he?"

Devi nodded.

"I thought so...he never told me, but I always thought that's what happened."

"So, all this time..."

Edgar thought Devi would continue, but she stayed silent. He decided to keep going.

"After that...I guess Nny wanted someone to talk to. He called me after...your date. He said it...went badly."

"That's putting it mildly." Devi looked up, met Edgar's eyes. "Did he tell you what happened?"

Edgar paused for a few seconds, then shook his head. "He was very vague about it...what I know I pieced together myself. He still won't talk about it."

Devi stared for a few more seconds.

"God, he tried to kill me...you know what he said? You know what he said, he said..." Devi glanced around, as if making sure no one was eavesdropping. "He said there were others. That I wasn't the first girl he's tried to kill. That he loved all the others, and the others were so beautiful. That I'd be beautiful too."

"Others?" Edgar felt a sinking sensation, and he expected Scriabin to say something but he heard nothing.

"Yeah. Can you imagine...God, I can't believe it, he was so nice at first..." Devi spoke with deep resentment. "He was so nice, and at the very end of it, he said he was happy. Then he just got up and..." She waved a hand in a vague gesture. "And I realized he was totally crazy."

"How did you escape?"

Devi stared, then smiled at Edgar again, broadly.

"I kicked the shit out of him, that's how."

Edgar raised an eyebrow with a smile, and Devi shrugged. Her own smile didn't fade. "It wasn't too hard. I got out, and after that-"

"Well, wait..." Edgar raised a hand. "I don't want to get too far off-topic. I'll forget where I was."

Devi stared at him, a flicker of annoyance across her features, then she shrugged again.

"Anyway...Nny called me and said it didn't go well...and after that, he kept calling me. He kept asking me questions, telling me small things about how he felt. I didn't understand why at the time...I guess maybe I was just someone he could talk to. I'm still not sure why he decided to talk to me...he did say he liked me before he let me go, so I guess that was part of it."

"Huh. Well, he said he liked me too before he tried to off me. I wonder how many people he's killed with that line." Still some deep resentment. Not quick to forgive Johnny's attempt on her life, and Edgar couldn't blame her for it. "You know, why didn't you just change your phone number?"

Edgar stared at the table, thought about this for a few seconds.

"Well...I guess I just didn't think it'd go that far. I guess I just assumed that every call he made would be the last. I didn't think I'd ever get more involved, and as long as I was on the other end of the phone line...I guess I just assumed I'd be safe that way. Not the smartest thing, looking back on it..." So much of this could have been avoided, if Edgar had just hung up originally...

But maybe that simplified things too much. Would Johnny have tolerated Edgar hanging up on him? God, did he lack power in their relationship even going back so far? Thinking back on what happened in that kind of light, it seemed so. Edgar had no power from the first words the two had exchanged. It was where their relationship started. Abductor and abductee.

_And has that really changed? Has anything really changed?_

"He's followed me." Devi folded her hands on the table. "I think he still likes me, after all this time. Even after what I did to him."

"He does." Edgar coughed, a little uncomfortable. "I'm positive that he still cares about you, in one way or another."

Devi seemed to consider this for a few seconds before shaking her head. "It doesn't change the fact that he's a psychopath, though. God, I've spent so many nights trying to sleep but just knowing he was still out there, it..." Devi stared off into the distance, her voice soft.

Edgar nodded. "I know what you mean. There's this kind of constant fear, that he could be anywhere at any time. For me, since I never knew how he trapped me in the first place, how he got me there...I don't know what to watch for. He could always do that again, and if I didn't see it coming the first time..." Edgar sighed. "I didn't sleep for a long time after I escaped."

_After I was released._

"Yeah..." Devi sounded a little relieved. She probably didn't get the chance to talk about this with other people very often. "I hate it, it feels like your life is out of your control. Like you've lost a part of it to him. Like he's just taken a part of you without asking and you can't get it back...there's some part of it that's always _his_ and God, I hate this. Nothing's the same after that night."

"God, you're right..." Edgar stared down at the table. "I didn't think of it that way, but I think you're right. He's taken...heh." He smiled and looked up to meet Devi's green eyes. "He's taken our normalcy away from us, if that's a good word for it."

Devi gave him an appraising look, tilted her head just slightly. It took a little while for her to return his smile. "Yeah, I think that works. You're pretty good with words."

Edgar shrugged it off. "I read a lot. But I think you're right, we've...kind of lost something through knowing him. Like you said, like some part of our lives is now his no matter what we do. Somehow, Johnny's got us both in one way or another...just through this constant fear, the worrying and anxiety..."

"Always thinking about him, even when I hated doing it...I didn't leave my place for days afterwards. Even now I still don't like going out anywhere. I feel like he's watching me, you know? Like he could be anywhere. At any time, he could..."

"Yeah..." Edgar smiled at her, sadly. "Yeah, I know."

"God, I can't... Fuck, I hate him for it. I hate the fact that I didn't realize, that I couldn't tell beforehand... Fuck, you know that I was thinking of asking him out myself? I was surprised that he asked me, but even if you hadn't been there, maybe I would have ended up going out with him anyway... Shit!" Devi slammed a fist into the table, and Edgar jumped. "Why didn't I- why couldn't I fucking tell? Then I'd still... Fuck. I hate this self-pitying bullshit, I'm sorry."

"No, it's okay." Edgar held up a hand. "I've done a lot of that myself." _That's putting it mildly._ "I think everyone would react like that...but either way, I still feel responsible. I want to apologize for telling him to call you."

"You don't have to apologize. Like I said, it probably would have happened with or without you." Devi had a hand to her forehead, and Edgar found himself thinking on her words harder than she probably intended.

_With or without me...things happen with or without me..._ He swallowed and he found Scriabin's words coming back to him, tone and emphasis perfectly memorized even after all this time.

_No one notices you. No one will ever notice you. You have accomplished nothing of any lasting importance in your entire life. You've never affected anyone for better or for worse. You wandered through life as a phantom, a pale imitation of what a person should be. You will be easily replaced because no one noticed you were there. Your life is nothing._

Edgar shook his head and reminded himself that he had a story to tell.

"At this point...well, not precisely at this point, but soon after I met Johnny...small things started to...change. I blamed it on stress, and it _was_ a fairly traumatic experience meeting him so there'd logically be some side-effects, but something changed in a different way when I met Johnny. I'm not sure how, and I'm not sure why, but I started talking to myself more than I did before..."

_What are you doing?_ There he was.

_What?_

_What are you doing? You aren't going to tell her, are you? She'll think you're crazy._

_I said I'd be honest and I'm going to be honest. There's no harm in it._

_No. No._ Scriabin sounded extremely uneasy, and Edgar was pretty sure it was because he never thought this situation would come up. _She'll just think you're crazy. She won't understand. She's normal, she won't understand, she won't believe you._

_What's the harm in trying?_

_Don't. Don't do it._

_Why? Are you nervous? What can she do about it? What do you think she can do?_

Scriabin made an uncomfortable sound, apparently unable to think of a response, and Edgar dug a little deeper. Nervousness, definitely, although that didn't explain why.

Devi was staring at him, and Edgar took a deep breath.

"I know this is going to sound crazy, but...after a while, I started taking sides in arguments...and one side began to become...more consistent, I guess you could say. Over time, it's just become more insistent, more loud. After a while...it became like a whole other person. I think that's when I began to suspect that something had gone really wrong, that being around Johnny had...done something to me. Like...it brought something in me to life. Or something like that. I'm still not sure where that...where that voice came from or what he is now but...after I met Johnny, he developed and...I think whatever it was that you were talking about, whatever it is that's making you sick...I think it was, and maybe still is, reacting to him."

_Well._ Scriabin's voice was strangely devoid of emotion. _I wasn't aware my life could be summed up so succinctly. What do you know._

_We don't really have time to go through all the details-_

_Good to know. Good to know._ Scriabin was upset but trying not to show it. Still strangely emotionless, and Edgar wondered if he sounded like this when he detached. Did he make it that obvious?

_Well what did you want me to say? What details do you want me to add in here?_

Silence.

"So...you think Johnny infected you?" Devi looked skeptical, but not entirely disbelieving. "Made you crazy?"

"I don't know if I'd phrase it like that, and I don't consider myself crazy, but yeah, something like that. I think Johnny or his house, maybe both, was involved in his...that voice's birth. Started him, in a way. Whatever it is that's affecting you...I don't know what just yet, but I think that...Johnny or his house is responsible for that too."

Devi stared down at the table with a hand to her forehead. Edgar was sure that at any minute, she'd call him a lunatic and walk out of the cafe. While the sheer strangeness of his own situation was wearing down for him, talking about it, saying it out loud reminded him of how it might sound to others. He was used to it by now, a thought that he reminded himself was not a good thing, but Devi...

She did not stand up, and kept her eyes down to the table. It took her a few minutes before she spoke. Her voice was level, determined. "After I met him, things started getting strange...really strange, like you said. I thought maybe it was just the stress or bad luck, but now I'm beginning to wonder if things are really just getting worse, _really_ worse...after I met you, things just started...like you triggered something. I'm not sure how or why...but...she started talking..."

He did not expect that and it took a few seconds for the full implications of it to hit him. He felt Scriabin recoil before he understood it himself, although he wasn't sure why Scriabin would...

Again that reminder that this wasn't normal, that even at the most generous application of the word this couldn't have been considered normal. He so often coached himself in fantasy, kept unpleasant thoughts and edges muffled with lies and stories. His past, his present, after so long he had justified Scriabin's existence, become so accustomed to it, couldn't even think of what his life could have been without it, and...

He had forgotten the facts of the matter at its deepest level. He said the words but didn't understand, refused to understand and now it became clear. Tore through it all and Scriabin was a voice, a voice inside his mind that hadn't always been there, that had so recently entered his life and become so powerful, a foreign voice so influential over his behavior that it was beginning to override his own...

God, he hadn't realized...with their joint delusion just the night before...

Edgar tried to think back to a time when he didn't have Scriabin, couldn't hear him, and those memories now were always colored by their false alternatives. Reworking, redefining, and for what...?

Scriabin wanted to be in his whole life, wanted to have a place in Edgar, with Edgar, as far back as he could remember and it didn't occur to him just how unhealthy that was...

Just how unhealthy all of this was...

How _crazy_ this was.

He didn't consider himself insane, he hadn't, he didn't think that he ever would. He never thought of himself as insane and to maintain that illusion, that definition of himself, he had merely worked Scriabin into his definition of normal. Allowed the enemy in the door so he wouldn't even have to admit to having problems...make what he currently was normal. Redefine insane.

And God, what else could it be? What else could it be, he had an entire other person in his brain, an entire other person and he was making up lies, stories, memories, a life with this false person, he even talked to a toy...God, he talked to a toy, he talked to a plastic toy and it _talked back to him_...

He was...

He wanted Scriabin to be normal...he wanted to be normal but Devi had shown him the mirror, had shown him exactly what he was doing. She had shown him what had happened, just what had happened, what he had lost over time, what Johnny had done to him. Everything hit him hard and everything that he wanted, he felt for Scriabin put to one side, put to one side in favor of the facts of his situation, of his life...

He wanted to believe but the mirror showed him the truth, and he knew that last night was a lie and not only that, a lie that only meant that things were getting worse. It only meant that he was spiraling further down into insanity and justifying each step on the way down. He was going insane, he was going insane and he had just not noticed for so long, he just ignored and worked and Scriabin had worked with him and he had never suspected, never suspected Scriabin of anything, trusted the intruding voice because it sounded familiar and knew what he wanted, what he needed to hear, and how could he have done something like, how could he have been so careless, so easily tricked, God...

God...

Devi...

Edgar wasn't alone. He wasn't alone, he wasn't alone in this, someone else was going crazy with him, someone else had a voice. Another mental voice, another voice that gained power over time...

The mirror kept reflecting and it showed what this had become, it tore through the lies that Edgar had wanted so much to believe about what was happening to him, what this was, what it meant, who he was. It tore through it all and showed him exactly who he was, and exactly what the voice in his head was. Reflected and there were no lies to cloud the meaning, to obfuscate the nature of it...

_What did you do to her?_

_Nothing._

_You did something to Devi, you did something to her. You don't expect me to believe this is a coincidence? That we both developed voices after meeting Johnny? That after me and her met her voice suddenly became more powerful? After she met you, or whatever it was that was in her head met you?_

Scriabin felt both startled and repulsed. God, he felt, he even _felt_ and God, God, Edgar wanted to take this all away, he wanted to have what he had before he met Devi, he wanted the comfort of the lies around them again but he couldn't believe that. He couldn't let the reality of this go, not when it had come and stared him in the face like this.

And he would have to do what he knew Scriabin wouldn't.

_Are you just like those things in Johnny that he talks about? All that noise? Are you just another parasite and looking to reproduce by spreading to as many people as possible? Are you just using me, using my body to develop? Are you just waiting for a better host? Are you infecting other people, are you using me as a carrier? If that's not the case, if you're more than that, there better be a damn good explanation for this._

Scriabin said nothing, though he could clearly feel his disgust.

Edgar struggled to find where the conversation had last dwindled into silence.

"So...something started talking to you, too?"

"I don't know. God, this sounds crazy." She looked up, expecting Edgar maybe to react negatively, but Edgar stayed where he was. "But...she doesn't say much, just yet. She just wants me to do a painting. I was planning on doing it before anyway, but now...she just won't leave me alone about it. She wants me to do this painting, but I don't have time, I have all this shit I have to do, and she just...repeats the same message over and over again. I can hear her all the time."

"So we've both got these kinds of voices going on." Devi still seemed a little uneasy about talking so frankly about the problem, so Edgar tried to keep his voice as level and calm as possible. "I think we're going through the same thing, or at least something similar. Johnny or his house definitely had an effect on us both, although I don't know what the end result is just yet...it all hinges on something that's...well, a little hard to believe. This is where things are going to get even more strange...and I'm sorry if it does seem more unbelievable."

Edgar was glad to try and move on to a different train of thought. He didn't want to believe what he saw in the mirror but he did, he did and in a way, it surprised and horrified him and he still felt proud that at least he knew, at least he could believe the truth when it showed itself to him. He was able to tell reality from fantasy after all, despite the heartache. Edgar kept his eyes closed and his face level and his thoughts on his words, in a way not wanting to know how Scriabin must have felt about all this. God, he could hear everything... "Johnny told me, or tried to explain to me at one point, that he felt like he couldn't die. I thought that he was just...well, you know, insane, but later on, he wanted me to...prove it. He wanted me to try and kill him, and I could have sworn that I did, but...nothing happened."

"You did _what_? You're still talking to him?"

Edgar made an uncomfortable sound. "Yeah...he wanted to be friends. There wasn't a lot I could do...I felt like if I said no, he'd kill me for it. I escaped death once, I wasn't entirely too keen on courting it again, if that makes sense. I kept trying to keep my distance, but he kept wanting to talk to me..."

"Did you call the police?"

"They couldn't do anything..." Edgar thought back, remembered the distaste on the face of the officer he had spoken to, remembered that feeling of intense helplessness and he found he was frowning without thought, glaring at the table and his voice was tight and frustrated. "They didn't do anything, I told them everything I knew but it was like, like he-"

"Didn't exist." Edgar looked up to meet Devi's eyes, then felt something soft touch his hand. Devi was resting her hand on top of his own, and the look on her face now for once was not suspicious, doubtful, angry or fearful. She looked sympathetic, near enough to understanding that Edgar wasn't sure how to react. "I know, I tried to call them too. The fuckers. They acted like I never called each time."

Edgar blinked at the contact, but found himself smiling. Human contact had gained such importance over his time with Johnny...how much was undeserved? "Like his house, how I could never tell them where it was..."

"Just got lost in all the streets...like they were changing, just to keep you away."

"His phone number was unlisted...didn't exist-"

"Like a phantom but I knew he was real, I knew he was but they just wouldn't _do_ anything-"

He felt Devi's hand shift on top of his own, felt the muscles tightening in her fingers with frustration that shook her voice. Edgar breathed slowly, found his calming voice again and kept a soft smile.

"I just kept hoping that eventually he'd leave me alone...but it didn't really work out that way."

He expected Scriabin to make some kind of smart comment, but nothing.

"He still won't leave me alone, even after everything that happened. I feel like he's everywhere. I can't believe the fucking police in this town."

"Well..." Edgar wondered why Johnny was content to passively follow Devi, watch her from a distance, but was more active in pursuing Edgar's attention. That wasn't a pleasant train of thought. "Either way, he said he couldn't die. And...I know this is not going to make sense. I know it, and I won't blame you if you think I'm crazy for it."

She stared at him for a little while, again raised an eyebrow. "This better be good."

Edgar shook his head with a pained smile. "Believe me...it gets worse. Johnny kept talking about reality...like how he couldn't die, how he was invincible, something was using him for some purpose, things like that. I know, he's crazy, so it's hard to put weight on what he says, but...he said that he was losing himself...what he used to define himself, I guess..." God, this felt like it happened so long ago. Details were fuzzy now and they shouldn't have been. "He said he used to paint-"

"God, that's right..." Devi sounded somewhat far away. "I remember, I remember seeing some of the things he painted in his house...those Styrofoam things, I...I forgot about that."

"Yeah..." Edgar kept his eyes on the table. "He said that he used to know why he was doing things, then he lost it...like he was acting with no motive." _That's a good way to put it. _"He said that there were things that kept...provoking him. I noticed this when I was with him, people just...just kept bothering him. Like they wanted to be killed, or their purpose was to irritate him, drive him to murder. I know that sounds like justification for what he does, and I want to make it clear that I do not approve of murder and I never will. I just think this all is related, in the end."

Devi stared at the table, made a soft thoughtful sound but didn't say anything.

"I don't approve of what Johnny does..." Edgar wanted to make this very clear. "I never will, and the fact that my presence hasn't put a stop to that..." No, that was an ugly path to follow. Change the subject. "It brings up the question though, did you notice that when you were with him? People being irritating, people just provoking Johnny for no reason?"

Devi thought for a few seconds. "Nothing out of the usual. Nothing that hinted at the fact he was a psychopathic serial killer or anything. There are assholes everywhere, no matter where you go, but I didn't notice an increased number of them that night. He got annoyed, but then he'd...fuck, I hate to think of it now, but he'd look at me or talk to me, and he'd calm down...he told me I made everything better for him. Goddamn it!" Devi hit the table again, and buried her face in her hands. "Goddamn him..."

Edgar felt something, but he wasn't sure what it was. It caused his body to twitch, to ready itself for something, something in his brain focusing on what Devi had said but he wasn't sure what it was. He didn't like how it felt, it made him feel bad or, to be more specific, it made him feel bad about how he felt. Like he shouldn't feel that way, but it was there and he wasn't sure how to make it go away-

_You're jealous,_ Scriabin spat, and Edgar froze. _You're jealous of Devi. You're jealous of the fact that for all of his supposed love and affection for you, Devi was the one who made him happy. Devi was the one who changed his reality enough so that it wasn't complete shit all the time. She did more in one night than you have in months. You're jealous of her and the fact that Nny cares more about her._

_That's not true._

Scriabin made a disgusted sound. _Fine, whatever. You do that. I'm not in the mood to argue._

_It's not true, and you know it's not._

_I'm not in the mood. Go ahead and do your whole denial thing. It doesn't change the fact that you're still jealous and I'm right. It doesn't change anything._

"Sometimes I hate him so much, and other times..." She took a deep breath, but didn't clarify further.

"Either way..." Edgar kept his internal frustration and irritation out of his voice. "At one point...at one point Johnny committed suicide..or at least I thought he did." Probably best not to get into details. "I found his body, and then..." He wanted to be honest, but God, looking back on it, his fight with Krik was embarrassingly one-sided. He closed his eyes, felt Scriabin's satisfied amusement at his discomfort, and took a deep breath. "Then me and this other guy got into a fight, which I lost." He could see that Devi wanted to ask about it, so he kept his words fast. "It's not important why or anything, really, but the fact is that I lost consciousness...and..."

Devi looked somewhat amused, which prompted more embarrassment on Edgar's part than he wanted to feel. Edgar continued. "I think I may have died. This is where everything gets strange." He saw by her expression that she already didn't believe him. "The thing is, I spoke with..." Edgar wanted to say someone else, but he was trying to be honest. "I spoke with...well, Satan, and he told me that there were systems- a system, that used Johnny. Made him crazy. He said that this system was used to gather hate and store it in things called cells, and Johnny was a lock on one of these cells. Like a hate filter, in a way. He told me that these people, these locks generally live quiet lives until they self-destruct...I'm assuming due to the pressure of the entire thing. Johnny did self-destruct, but I guess the analogy would run that it was like a bomb. He took out everyone that he came in contact with. The system used him, and I think the voices, the parasites, I think they're a part of it. I think they're the first part, I think they're what allows the flow of hate...into the mind, if that makes sense."

She did not believe him.

"I know how this sounds." Actually, Edgar had no idea that the entire thing sounded this stupid. He was a little surprised to find he believed it himself. "You don't have to believe all of it, or any of it, but the part that's important is about the system, the waste lock system. If it's happening to me, and we're mirroring each other...it's probably happening to you too."

"Honestly, Edgar, yeah, that is a little hard to believe." She leaned back in her chair. "You came back to life? Talked to fucking _Satan_? There's no proof for any of this, just the fact we've both got little voices after meeting up with Johnny."

"I know, but there's no proof otherwise either, right?" He smiled weakly, but she didn't return the gesture. "I know, it sounds stupid. It sounds really stupid. The thing about dying or Satan or anything doesn't matter, really, it's just about the systems. That's what's important and that's what I think this is about. It's more than a coincidence that our voices reacted to each other that way, don't you think? That we both got one after meeting the same person? That means something, I know it does. Whether or not it means the system theory, that's up to you, but...that's what I think is happening. I think that those voices, those parasites, are working for the system. That they're trying to make us both go crazy, in a way. They're working to destroy us."

_Oh, is that what I'm doing?_

Oh shit.

_I didn't mean you-_

_Oh, really? Who on earth did you mean? What magical other person are we talking about?_

In an effort to make Devi feel less alone, he forgot that Scriabin was listening and...

_God, I'm sorry, I'm sorry okay, I don't want to scare her off, I'm trying to get her to believe me-_

_Wow, you apologized. I feel better already. It's a good thing that your words have such magical healing powers._

Edgar was in for some serious pain when he got home. Scriabin was _pissed_ at him, and he was pretty sure that staying with Devi would only make it worse.

That small, ugly, rebellious voice spoke up again, reminded him that Devi was an actual human being, and Scriabin...

For once he wanted to prove that voice wrong, he wanted to prove everything wrong just because he didn't mean to, he didn't want to hurt him. Scriabin's anger was easy to sense and familiar, but Edgar knew, even if he couldn't tell immediately, that he had hurt Scriabin more deeply than he would ever let on, and he really hadn't wanted to do that. He didn't want to do that, after it all, everything they had last night...

But the mirror kept reflecting, kept reflecting and that ugly voice kept saying, kept pointing out exactly who, or rather, what, it was that he felt concerned for, kept asking whether that concern was justified or just the side-effects of manipulation that had gone on for so long...

_I didn't mean it, I'm trying to get her to believe me-_ God, he wished Scriabin would understand but he knew that Scriabin would interpret his words in the worst, most insulting way.

_I told you she wouldn't believe you. Are you lying to try and make the truth more palatable? After all your moralistic ranting about how I shouldn't lie? You fantastic jackass._

_God, I'm sorry, okay?_ He was, he really was, despite all of his misgivings and doubts and that mirror, he was. He wanted to stop thinking about it, he wanted everything to be simple again- _Just-, you can yell at me later, I just want to get through this conversation-_

_What, do you want her to like you?_ It was a mean, sneering comment, but afterwards Scriabin paused.

_God, is everything a sexual thing with you?_

Scriabin didn't respond, instead made a thoughtful sound in the back of Edgar's mind.

"Destroy us..." Devi stared at the table. "I do...I do feel like I'm losing my mind lately. But I don't want to believe some shit about systems and fucking _Satan_. I got over the whole Satan vampire thing when I was a teenager. I just..." She leaned her head on one hand and sighed. "I just want to know how to make it stop."

"That's the thing..." Edgar felt uncomfortable at Scriabin's sudden silence. He was rarely silent unless he was planning something... "That's the thing, I don't want to go crazy either...but..." God, he had to make it up to Scriabin somehow, but if he told her that Scriabin might have been related to something else, he'd be contradicting himself and he might alienate her...ugh. There was no way out of this. "The thing is I'm not sure if all the voices are...entirely related. For example, my voice...he started early, earlier than when I," God this was awkward to say, "when I met up with Satan and he said I was a lock...so I don't think Scriabin is related to the lock system."

"Who?"

Edgar winced. Shit, he hadn't meant to let his name slip. "That's his name."

She stared at him for a few more seconds. "Isn't that the name of that guy in that movie? Shit, you know, come to think of it, you kind of look like him."

"Yeah, I get that a lot." Edgar wanted to move on to something else immediately. "But, um, you said that you felt like your voice was doing something to you?"

"I'm pretty sure she is...and I'm sure she doesn't like your voice. I think that's what happened back in the bookstore. I think they just...didn't like each other or something." A very short pause. "God, do you realize how fucking crazy this sounds?"

"I know, I know. I know how this sounds. I know but you know it and I know it and we know it's happening, and we've just got to go with it." Edgar ran a hand through his hair and tried to slow down his words. "So why do you think that she's quieter now?"

"Well, why do you think you aren't feeling sick?"

_Scriabin?_

_Like hell I'm answering any of your questions now._

Edgar let out a long sigh.

_Fuck you, bitch. _Scriabin added completely unnecessarily, and Edgar shook his head and tried to keep his expression neutral. _Fuck you._

"I don't know..." Scriabin used to quiet down whenever he was speaking out loud...he wasn't sure when Scriabin stopped being influenced by that. "Maybe he doesn't care anymore...I'm not sure."

"Well, let's go with this crazy system theory thing of yours." She obviously did not put much faith into the theory and on closer inspection, really, who would? "Maybe your voice and my voice are part of two different systems or something. I mean, you said that yours showed up before your whole 'meeting with Satan', so that means there's got to be at least two systems going on. Mine...from what you've said about Nny, it sounds like...it's kind of the same thing. Shit, _that's_ healthy."

"Yeah, from what you said, I think...it sounds the same. Just being bothered constantly and being unable to, um...I don't know." Edgar felt weird explaining something that he was sure Devi already knew. "You understand...it didn't occur to me that there might be more than one system."

"Fuck, while we're at it, why not keep expanding it? Maybe the voices are a totally unrelated thing from this lock thing you keep talking about, maybe they're totally different. Maybe my voice and your voice and N- Johnny's voice are all different from this lock system. All different from each other."

An uncomfortable thought. "Yeah, could be...in that case though, it's harder to find out how to fix it."

"Well...let's see how everything matches up." Edgar wasn't sure if Devi was just humoring him or not. "You said Nny was a painter? How much do you know?"

"Not a lot...most of it I just guessed. I saw his paintings, the large ones he keeps in the basements...they were beautiful, in this horrible way. I think what happened is that all that hate going into him from that whole system...I don't know how long it got hold of him, but he said that he felt like he was gradually slipping out of control since I met him. He said that he used to know why he killed people but lost that motivation later...I think maybe whatever that system is, I think it took that same...creative power he used to wield and turned it against him, in a way."

"Or..." Devi looking thoughtful, a finger to her lips. "Or stifled it...stopped it. So he couldn't paint anymore...he asked me that once, he asked me what would happen if I stopped doing what I considered defined me as a person...God, I should have been more suspicious..." Her eyes widened. "He said something about becoming a maniac without that, to have that cut off..."

"Do you feel the same? I mean, that kind of same stifled feeling? You said you didn't have time to do that painting..."

"Well, I've just been busy lately. I can still paint if I just had the time but...God, that's an ugly thought."

"Do you think your voice is trying to help you?"

"What?"

"I mean...you said it wanted you to do that painting?"

"Well...yeah." Devi scratched her head. "But she doesn't understand that I can't right now, I just fucking can't and it gets me frustrated..."

"Hmm..."

A silence as the two thought.

"Either way..." Edgar said and Devi looked back up at him. "I think you should be careful. Your voice might be trying to help you or trying to hurt you...you should be really careful about what you believe. I mean..."

"Do you paint too? Is this some kind of weird artist's plague?" She smiled a little at her comment, and Edgar smiled back.

"No, I'm not a very creative person. That's why I'm...a little confused, I guess. I don't have that kind of...creative outlet to be stifled, if that makes sense. I guess that's why I think that my voice is different from the system's voices..."

"I thought you said you were a lock, or whatever it was." She still didn't believe that theory and it was obvious in her voice.

"I am, but...I think Scriabin's something different. Earlier. Maybe taking up the space that the system would have used otherwise, I don't know. I don't understand how any of this works..." Edgar looked into her eyes. "Everything aside, I want you to be careful."

"You want me to be careful?" She tilted her head at him, kind of smirked but not quite. "Why so interested?"

Edgar shrugged, tried to sound casual. "I think we could help each other. I mean, we're both going through similar ordeals...and despite the subject matter, I found this conversation rather pleasant. Did you?"

She stared at him with that same smirk for a few more seconds. "You have a point. It's getting increasingly difficult to find anyone nowadays who's worth talking to. Compared to some of the other guys I've met recently, you're amazing."

"Thank you." Edgar felt genuinely flattered. "I haven't been talking to many people at all, so I can't say the same about you, I'm afraid."

"And besides, who's really perfect anyway?" Devi leaned her head back and stared at the ceiling. Something around her neck caught the light for just a second. Edgar hadn't noticed that before...she had a necklace. A small quartz crystal on a silver chain. "I'd be willing to put up with a dozen guys who heard voices telling them things if they were as skilled a conversationalist as you."

Edgar felt a tinge of mild irritation at the insinuation that he was crazy, and he found it returned his thoughts to an ugly, barren place. He could still feel Scriabin sulking, offended and hurt and angry and trying to hide anything deeper from him, and he didn't want to think about it anymore. Not right now. This day had been going so well at first.

"That's a pretty necklace." Edgar decided he might as well move on to a different topic. Devi looked back to him, then down to her chest.

"Oh, this." She picked up the crystal gingerly. "Yeah, Tenna gave it to me today." At Edgar's questioning look, Devi shrugged and clarified. "She's a friend of mine. She said that crystals are supposed to promote healing and calm or something like that. I think she's been working at that hippie store too long. I don't believe in that New Age bullshit. Do you?"

Edgar shook his head. He considered briefly mentioning that he was Christian, then decided against it. It wasn't like that was important information that Devi needed to know. "What's it supposed to do?"

"Well, I don't know. I'm not sure how much of what Tenna tells me is what it really does or what she thinks it should do." Devi smiled faintly, and Edgar got the impression that Devi and Tenna were good friends, despite the mild irritation in her voice. "I told her that things had gotten weird lately, and before you know it, she's trying to talk to me at all hours of the night. I tell her I have no time to work and her answer is to try and take up any free time I _do_ have. It's getting really old, to be honest. But this is her latest effort to get me to feel better. Supposedly these kind of crystals promote inner healing." Devi rolled her eyes. "They're supposed to kind of absorb the negative thoughts and energies around someone and purify them. Or something. She wouldn't leave me alone until I put it on, and then I forgot about it until you pointed it out. I'll probably take it off when I get home."

Edgar smiled. "She sounds like she cares about you."

Devi almost shrugged, but stopped before she completed the motion. She looked at Edgar again, studied him, and her voice was low. "I don't think that'll help me now."

Another silence.

Edgar was the first to speak again.

"What are we going to do?" It was a general question with no intended listener, enough so that if Scriabin were listening instead of sulking, perhaps he would have also had some kind of answer. Devi stared at the table.

"I don't know. He won't leave you alone, right? He knows where you live...he knows your phone number. He knows where I live...we can't get away from him. He's only making this worse, I'm sure of it. I don't understand what's happening, though I still don't think Satan is involved, and I don't know if we can stop it."

We.

Edgar coughed, stared down at the table with Devi and felt his fingers twitch just that little bit, just enough so that he knew what his body was trying to do and he forced his hands to stay still. It didn't mean anything.

"I don't want this to happen." She rested a hand on her forehead. "I don't want to go crazy."

"Neither do I."

"What are we going to do?"

"Well..." They needed a plan, and Edgar felt obligated to come up with something, logical or not. "I don't know, exactly. I guess we can start by keeping track of exactly what's happening to us...how we feel, anything that seems off. Maybe we can find a pattern that way. If there's something triggering it, or something feeding it, then maybe we can find it and put a stop to it."

"Do you think that she's trying to help me? My voice?"

Edgar made an uncomfortable sound. "If your voice is the same as Johnny's...then no, I don't think so."

"And yours? Is it helping you?"

Edgar found that his first response to this question was "I don't know."

The following surge of hatred and fury from Scriabin forced him to automatically rethink his words. He didn't even realize that his prime motivation for doing so was not concern for Scriabin's possible hurt feelings, but fear of what Scriabin was going to do to him, of what his anger promised. "I think so."

"Then why keep tabs on each other?"

"Well, we're both...or I'm pretty sure we're both part of the lock system now." Edgar rubbed the back of his head. "The voices might not be related, or at least mine might not be, but they might be a warning system for worse things to come. Does that make sense?"

Devi stared at him.

"We're supposed to be honest, right?" she said finally, and Edgar nodded. "Well...are you the kind of guy that will constantly leave messages if I don't respond to them?"

"No."

"You know when to back off?"

Edgar thought for a few seconds, then shrugged. "I don't approach unless asked, in general."

Devi made a thoughtful sound, then dug around in the pocket of her coat. She kept her voice even while she pulled out a small piece of paper and a pencil.

"You seem like a nice guy and I think you're right, I think that maybe we can help each other somehow, and we're going to need all the help we can get. The thing is that recently, I don't want to be disturbed unless it's important. Lately people have been calling up and asking me to do things a lot and I'm getting tired of it. It's hard to focus."

"Do you want me to wait for your call, then?"

Devi looked up at him and again she had a vaguely grateful expression, as if thankful that Edgar had understood.

"Most likely. Don't call me unless it's really important. I'll answer your messages eventually, but leave only one. Is that a deal?"

Edgar took the piece of paper that she offered him. "Of course."

"What about you?" Devi folded her hands in front of her as Edgar began to write his own phone-number on a supermarket receipt he found in his coat pocket. "You have any rules you want me to follow?"

Edgar shook his head and handed over his phone number. "Not particularly. My life isn't very eventful, except when Johnny steps into it. I don't mind if you call me at any time, as long as I'm there. I might not be, but I think most of the time I'll be there."

"Okay then." Devi pocketed the slip of paper and stood, and Edgar followed her lead. "Now that that's been taken care of, I've got things I need to do. It's been nice talking to you, and lately, that's saying a lot."

Edgar reached out a hand without thinking, and thankfully Devi took it and the two shook hands for a few seconds. Her skin was cool and slightly damp. "I'm just sorry I couldn't help you more."

Devi shrugged and the two began walking towards the door. "Well, we've got theories. That's more than what I had before. Plus we both know we're not alone, which is good, and we've kind of got a plan, so I think we came out ahead."

"Yeah, I think so." Edgar wanted to say more in response, but he couldn't find the words.

Once outside, Devi opened her hideous umbrella and waved good-bye. She smiled just a little, and Edgar smiled in return as she headed on her way.

He stood there in the rain, his coat which had dried just a little in the café now again soaked, and he held on to his upper arms.

_So now what?_ Scriabin's voice was filled with hate.

Edgar watched her leave, looked down at the ground and watched the ripples from the raindrops in the puddles that were scattered across the sidewalk.

_I'm going to see Johnny._

_What?_ Scriabin sounded both completely shocked and somewhat horrified. Edgar turned and walked purposefully towards his car, his fists closed tight.

_I'm going to see Johnny. You've been distracting me for days. You're trying to keep me away from him. This is it. I'm going to see him again._

_After everything I've- everything we've- everything I've tried to tell you-_ Scriabin struggled for words through the midst of anger Edgar knew was nearly blinding. _You're going back to him? After everything you just told Devi? Why? Why? What possible motivation could you have? He has nothing to offer you except more abuse, more threats to your life, more lies and emotional ambivalence and fingers wrapped around your throat that's too damn silent! He gives you nothing, he'll give you nothing, I've explained to you, I've told you why, I've even explained in small words that Johnny will never, ever love you like you think he will and that's a good thing, Edgar! That's a good thing because you won't die, and I can't understand why you can't see this! Johnny is destroying you! Being with Johnny is destroying you as a person. Why are you going back to him?_

Edgar sat down in the front seat of his car, slammed the car door behind him and shook himself off. _Destroying me as a person, huh. And what about you? What have you been doing to me?_

_How dare you. How dare you even say that to me._ Fury building high and Edgar could barely feel his own, differentiate it from Scriabin's. He could hear it in Scriabin's tone, the hissing growl through his clenched teeth, the occasional quiver of his voice when he was on the verge of screaming but managed to keep that in check. _How dare you say that to me after everything you've done. After everything I've done for you, after all the shit you put me through, all the shit I've cleaned up after you, everything I've done for you and you have the audacity to say that it wasn't for your benefit. You honestly think that I've been trying to hurt you? Everything I've ever done I've done for you-_

_For me?_ Edgar's head was beginning to hurt and he felt for his keys in his pocket. _Was it really for me, Scriabin, in the end? How many times have you told me that only so I can find out later on that you were lying to me? How many times you have you told me to trust you for my own benefit when really it served your interests rather than my own?_

_God, this is what drives me crazy about you. You forget everything except what's happening right now. You forget everything except what justifies how you feel. You forget it all. What about last night, genius? You trusted me then, didn't you? Did I turn on you then? Did I lie to you then?_

_You say I'm the one who forgets the past? You weren't even honest with me then, you kept what you wanted hidden until I practically dragged it out of you after we fought and suffered for it. You fought me every step of the way, you fought me finding the what-you-so-gladly-say is the truth now, and I can't even say for sure that it is. Maybe it is and maybe it isn't, and you wouldn't tell me either way, would you? One night where I succeeded in fighting past your barriers, you trying to stop me every inch of the way, and you somehow think it was a victory for you? Last night was for you, not for me, wasn't it?_

_For me- I didn't ask to come with you-_

_No, but you sure made yourself at home when you showed up, didn't you?_

_I don't remember you exactly kicking me out, _Scriabin hissed through gritted teeth. _I don't remember you exactly fighting with all your strength against our past together, did you? You're the one who started it, I was the one who tried to remember the reality-_

_And I was the one who had to tell you the truth, because you couldn't bear to break the fantasy. You couldn't do it and so I had to, I had to...did you, what did you want from last night?_

_You know what I wanted-_

_That's not an answer to my question- GOD I hate that about you! You never give me a straight answer about anything, regardless of how important or unimportant it is. You're always lying about everything, and one night doesn't erase the countless times you lied to me before-...God, you lied to me about Devi. You lied to me about what happened when we met her. You lied to me at the church. You lied to me in that white space, you lied to me when I had that breakdown, you lied to me about the seizure, you lied to me about where you came from, about how you felt, what you wanted, lied to me about Jimmy and why you wanted him to die, you've lied to me about so much. You've even told me that you're a liar, repeatedly. How can you expect me to trust you?_

_How can the concept of change be so foreign to you? How can you be so stubbornly idiotic?_ Scriabin's voice raising, stronger and his head was pounding and Edgar leaned his head against the steering wheel. _Everything I've done has been for your benefit! You just can't see that, you just would never have understood! I've kept things from you because you keep doing this, you keep refusing to understand so you can claim the moral high-ground! There are some things that you're better off not knowing and I've done my best to keep those things from you. Everything I've done, every lie I've told has been to help you! I've been trying to keep you sane, remember? That's what I've always been doing!_

_Scriabin, you're not...you weren't. Why didn't you tell me about Devi? Why didn't you tell me about her voice? That was it, wasn't it? That was why I felt so sick? Why you told me to get out? Why didn't you tell me what happened? Why didn't you tell me that she had a voice too?_

_You didn't need to know._

_What do you mean I didn't need to-_

_That's one of those things you didn't need to know. I never thought it would come up again because I never thought you'd see her again. Funny how things work out._

_Who are you to decide what I can and can't handle?_

_I know you, Edgar! I know you better than you know yourself because like it or not I'm stuck here! I know how you feel about everything, I know every thought that crosses your mind! I know more about what you can and can't handle than you do, and you can't handle a surprisingly large amount, boy._

_You, you're so fucking arrogant- _Rage building and he was breathing fast, his heart was racing and he felt the metal of his keys touch his fingers, distract him just long enough to remind him of what he was originally planning. _I can't...I can't. I've...you're distracting me. _Edgar sat up and he felt extremely dizzy. _You're trying to distract me again. You're trying to get me to argue with you so I won't go. It won't work. It's not going to work this time. You've been distracting me for too long. You've been taking things from me for too long. I'm going to see Johnny again and you can't stop me._

_God damn you! _Scriabin shouted. _Don't you understand anything? Can't you listen? I've said it before and I'll say it again, I'll keep saying it until you understand: Johnny is the worst person in the world for you! God, does the fact that Johnny fully intends to kill you mean NOTHING to you? How can you be so stupid? How can you so consistently follow the same self-destructive patterns? How many times and ways do I have to tell you to stop hurting yourself before you listen to me?_

_Johnny-_

_Johnny doesn't love you, Edgar, and he never will. I told you this, I explained this to you before, and I thought maybe you would listen but you never did. You've never listened to me, Edgar, and look where it's gotten you! Look at you, you've signed your own death warrant, you've slit your own wrists-_

_I'm not going to listen to you, not anymore. You've done this to me too much. Johnny matters to me, Scriabin, he matters to me and he needs me. He's going to need me, and if Jimmy hasn't found him yet, I can warn him. I have to try. I have to try and do something. I am going to go see Johnny._

_Johnny is a psychopath, Edgar! He has no comprehension of normal human emotion! His love is a knife through your ribcage! A punctured lung filling with blood, and you want this? And Jimmy, god, Jimmy, I told you why he deserves to die! Why Jimmy is basically walking right into Johnny's knife with a gleeful smile on his face and that there's nothing that can, or should, be done about it! I told you, I explained it to you, god, why can't you understand! Why are you doing this? Johnny is the reason you're unhappy, he's the reason that you're who you are now instead of who you were, he's wearing away at your personality and your life and for Christ's sake Edgar, he's going to kill you. He's going to kill you, does that mean nothing to you? Does that mean nothing to you? Why are you throwing your life away? Why is Johnny worth your life?_

_I'm not going to be distracted anymore. If I can save someone's life I'm going to try. I'm going to go see him._

_God- Fuck you!_ Scriabin's voice broke and he knew that tears had caused the momentary audible weakness. Scriabin's rage was overpowering, and now beneath it all he could feel his hurt. _Fuck you, you selfish bastard, I'm still here! I'm still here with you! Are you going to kill us both?_

Edgar closed his eyes and he felt something burning, a heat that built and he wanted it to stop but he didn't know how. It was building in the back of his mind, ugly and painful and he felt afraid in a way he didn't understand for some reason he didn't know.

_This is my body._ The mirror still held up and it still reflected the truth, and he didn't mean to say that but he did, and despite it all he knew it was true. He knew that it would hurt Scriabin in a way that Edgar knew was hideous and agonizing but it was the truth. It was the truth and he couldn't lie about it, not when someone's life could be at stake. _This was my body before you came, this was my life before you tried to work your way into it. This is my body no matter what happens. It's my decision what I do with it, not yours._

_Fuck you! _Scriabin screamed, furious and shrill. _Fuck you, fuck you, after everything you said to me, after everything-_

_It's the truth and you know it, you know it's the truth. I can't lie to myself anymore about what you are, about where you came from. You know where you came from, you know what you are. You know the truth just as well as I do! We can tell stories to try and make it deeper, make it more meaningful, make it a choice, a deliberate choice on both our parts but it wasn't, and it's not. We can't lie to each other like this, Scriabin! We can't pretend this is something it's not!_

_Fuck you!_ Sobbing and Edgar could still feel the rage burning, rage burning hot and strong and he wanted it to stop, it hurt, it hurt too much and his entire body stood on edge, all muscles tensed in preparation for something, to ward off something but he didn't know what. _Fuck you, you don't know what this is! You don't know anything, you don't know anything about me, you don't know what I can do! You think I'm still your little fucking voice, I'll fucking show you! Back to that 'no life of my own' bullshit, I'll fucking show you!_

Edgar shuddered and after it stopped he realized that he couldn't feel his hands and it was getting hard to breathe.

_I'm more than that, I'm more than you, I'm more than any of you! I'm fucking more than Nny and I'm more than that bitch in Devi, I'm more than just your fucking little voice! 'This is my body', 'this is my body', well fuck you! Fuck that, I'll show you whose fucking body this is! I am fucking tired of you, and I am fucking tired of playing baby-sitter to your fucking bad decisions! I am fucking FED UP with your pseudo-relationship with Nny and your unbelievable, unwarranted, in-fucking-comprehensible inability to stop it, stop him! You're too fucking weak to stop him, you're too weak to say no when he raises the knife above you, but I'm not! You're too fucking weak to save yourself and you don't even know it, you don't even want to know it. That's the fucking truth Edgar. You think this is your body? You think I have no power? You think our death isn't my decision? You think that I'm going to let that fucker kill me without a fight? I'll show you just how fucking fragile your relationship with the skinny fucking psychopath really is! All your bullshit about how this'll survive and you have faith and it's all belief in nothing, in a shallow-as-shit relationship that you can't let go of! Can never see past the surface to see what it really is, all it will ever be and you and your fucking fantasies and your obsession with playing with fire, well fuck that! You think that Nny really loves you, you think that in the end your magic fucking love will save you both, you make me sick! I'll show you the fucking truth and you're going to be sorry, you're going to fucking beg me for lies. I'll fucking show you, I'll fucking show you once and for all, I'll FUCKING SHOW YOU-_

Edgar's heart stopped beating. He made a choked sound and slumped against the steering wheel, his eyes still frozen open.


	23. Fate

burnt sharp burning hair  
Kzkou dkzzzzzkzzzli zkkzzzzave nothing...mon

kzzzzzzkzkzzzzzzz  
You never ZZKKSSSKKKK sssssssssssss i-----rt-  
eyes watering  
"kzzxxkxk xxx only re------ that I'm

olerate KZZZZXKXXXXings...zkzkzkzk erratic behavior...--------------kz afraid  
Afraid

kzzkz

kzkzzzzkk

"You're insane."

"...but..."

zzzkkzkzzz psychopath-----murdering kkzzzzzzzzz

no control afraid of you ------eason kzzzzzzzzzzkI EVER talaaaawwwkkkzzzsss zzkkzkzZKKZKZkkkill me

"...this can't be true."

"...reality...again...? I...kzzkzkzk...reality where zkkkk let...oookzxxxthat...ng ba...some fond memories?"

"Wait...KZZZZZZKKK a minute..."

"Your lack...always disgus...tened mezkzkk disapp...trust...atter ho...rd you try, I can never tzzzzzkrrrrkkzzak simply won't work. That's why iiizzkkakaxczcaopping it."

zkakfv

zzk

"...the truth, hmm? I knooooozzzkkkkkw how that feZKelZKs."

watering stinging drowning let me out let me breathe i can see the surface

stop it SHUT UP you are NOT coming up now

"Say that again."

"Say whatZKKKKKKKKKsappointment kzzaaaaaaaaaaaonly emotion I feel...ong into the future...ear? ...only...ere is because of...sycho...rapkzzzzzzkped us...healthy, don't you kzzk"

"Your voice...you'reZKXX..."

"...understand, Johnny, ...estr...ame time? Soon...no be...and is that...ant? If yozkk...f you ca...alize th...et mzzk. You zzrrkkzzzzakkkkalking me zkkkkour crazy all...akingkkzzk sickkzkzkk care...kzazkakzak"

"zkkk..."

"...urprised, Johnny? Kzzzkkked at what I've keptzkzk to myself for so long? No wonder Devi left you-"

pain

"You know NOTHING about her! You don't know ANYTHING about what happened that night! What the hell, how could you say something like that? What the fuck is wrong with you?"

choking

tongue

Edgar had his back to the floor, something sharp jabbing through the carpet between his shoulder blades and Johnny was above him, one hand tightly wound in his shirt and the other pressing his knife to Edgar's throat. Johnny's face was contorted with fury, he could see the trails of tears on his cheeks and he was screaming in his face.

Edgar gasped, his body jerking and his heartbeat suddenly thudding into his ears and found he could breathe again, but...

_How did I...get here..._

"Who are you! You can't be- He'd never- If you're one of those FUCKING parasites I swear I'll tear your throat out right now-!"

"Nny, stop!" Edgar struggled for air and choked on his own words. "Stop, what're you talking about-"

"Don't play dumb with me, I know-" Johnny closed his eyes and shuddered, his thin body shaking with exertion and then his voice was surprisingly soft. "Shit, shit, tell me this isn't...tell me you weren't...tell me you didn't..."

Edgar took this chance to try and slow his breathing and sort through his frenzied thoughts. He was in his car, he was in his car just seconds ago...what had happened? How did he get here? What happened? What was Johnny talking about?

"How dare you." Johnny's voice filled with deep hate and loathing. Edgar felt the brief warmth of a tear falling on his shirt. "How could you say that? How could you say something like that? You can't- you're not supposed to-" With a sharp inhalation through his teeth, Johnny again pressed the knife hard against Edgar's throat and Edgar instinctively leaned his head back as far as he could go. It wasn't breaking skin yet, it wasn't, it wasn't he just had to stay calm...

Johnny's voice broke. "You're _different_...how could you say something like that..."

Said things, Edgar didn't remember saying things-

_YOU!_

He could barely hear Scriabin breathing hard somewhere in the back of his mind, feel his resentment and pride.

A moment of hesitation, the briefest moment, then a surge of pride and sadistic joy that Edgar had come to know well from him.

_Yes, me._

_It was you!_ Edgar couldn't even put how he felt into words. Fury and hate and betrayal all came over him at once, obliterating rational thought and he wished that he could reach into his own mind and kill Scriabin with his bare hands. His voice was strangled and embarrassingly high. _It was you, you- you- you possessed me! You took over my body! You took- You lied to me! You lied to me about- oh my God, how could you-_

_I think you have something more important to worry about._ His satisfaction was maddening. The fact that he obviously didn't consider Edgar a threat only made Edgar angrier.

"You can't, you can't. You can't, I need you, I need the stability, I need the anchor." Johnny was looking past him at a spot a little above Edgar's head. "I need you, I need you as a person and I need the Edgar that I know and can come back to, you can't- you can't do this to me, you can't-...not all this time, it can't be, it can't, I can't have been wrong, not...everything I've done, I can't..."

Edgar realized that this was when he was going to have to tell Johnny about Scriabin. He never thought he'd ever have to, but now he could see no other alternative.

"Nny, it...I didn't..." He had to stay calm. There was a way out of this, there had to be a way out of this. "Whatever it was I said, you know- you knew I wouldn't say something like that to you." Scriabin's smug satisfaction still flooding into Edgar's mind, stoking his anger further and Edgar tried to keep it from his voice. "You could, you could tell, couldn't you? You knew something was wrong? You know I wouldn't say...whatever it was I said-"

"You don't remember?" Johnny stared at him for a moment in confusion, then again his features tightened with rage. "How can you not remember? What the fuck, Edgar, what do you mean you can't remember!"

Edgar took a deep breath.

_He'll never talk to you again. I told you-_

_I'm going to kill you._

_Oh, sure you are. You can't hurt me._

_You fucking bastard, I swear to God I'm going to get you for this._

"It wasn't...me who said that."

"Then who the hell-"

"Nny...there's something that I probably should have told you a while ago-"

"No. God fuck dammit no, no no no." Johnny released Edgar, stood and began prowling around the room with his hands held tightly behind his back. Edgar stayed where he was on the floor for a few seconds to make sure Johnny wouldn't change his mind.

Johnny's voice held a familiar sense of wounded dignity, the ever-suffering martyr. "You can't, you can't fucking do this to me, Edgar, you can't fucking tell me this- fuck!" Johnny shouted at the top of his lungs and Edgar flinched on instinct. "FUCK!"

"Nny, I was going to tell you..." Actually, he never had any intention at all of doing so, but that wouldn't help him now. Edgar stood up and touched his throat where the knife had come all too close. Looked like it hadn't broken skin after all. "It's just..."

"SHUT UP!" Johnny whirled around, knife at ready and Edgar obeyed. "Fuck, fuck Edgar, don't you understand? Don't you understand anything- I've explained this hundreds of times I thought we knew, I thought you understood and you can't fucking DO this to me, Edgar! You can't fucking tell me this shit, I can't fucking DEAL with this right now!"

"What are you talking about? What do you mean-"

Johnny was close in an instant and again the knife pressed against Edgar's throat. Edgar managed to muffle his instinctual gasp as Johnny hissed in his face. "Fucking Edgar, you can't do this, you can't- you can't tell- after everything, you _liar_-"

"Nny, it wasn't- it wasn't me, if you'd let me explain-"

"I don't want to hear this! I don't want to hear your explanations, Vargas!" Edgar's back hit the wall hard. Johnny had been pushing him backwards and he hadn't even realized it. The edge against his throat was beginning to sting and Edgar was shaking and sweating and fairly sure that he was going to die. Once and for all, this was it, he was going to die.

_I hope you're real fucking happy now._

Scriabin did not respond.

"Nny, please-"

"Stop it! Stop talking!" Johnny screamed, his eyes shut tightly and Edgar wasn't sure why his throat wasn't slit yet. "Just stop it, stop it, stop it erase it make it stop make it stop goddamn you can't tell me this, you can't tell me that you've been lying to me, you can't take this away from me-"

"Nny-"

"You can't take this away from me!" Johnny opened his eyes and stared at Edgar wildly. "You're all I have left! You're the only thing that hasn't changed in my fucked up life and I won't let you, I won't let them take this away from me, I won't let them-"

"Nny, listen, please, please just let me explain, it's not what you think-"

"Shit, Edgar! EDGAR!" Johnny shook him with his free hand and Edgar felt something warm trickling down his skin to his collarbone. He started to wheeze loudly from fear at that point despite his best efforts to stop, although Johnny did not seem to notice. "Edgar, don't you understand? Can't you understand, can't you understand, you can't- you can't change! You can't fucking change on me! You can't tell me- you can't do this to me! I need you, I need you the way you are, I can't- not now- you can't- _fuck_!" At a frustrating lack of words and Johnny pulled away from Edgar without warning and again stalked off to the other side of the room.

After a few seconds, Edgar put a hand to his throat cautiously. It didn't feel like a deep cut, but it was a definite indication that Johnny was losing control.

Of course...of course, that was what Johnny was afraid of...he was afraid of corruption, of change, of losing what he loved, of hating the things he loved and if Edgar changed...if Edgar had lied he lost that, he lost that anchor, he lost his anchor to reality, the one thing he could count on...

Telling him about Scriabin might destroy Johnny's world as he knew it, but more importantly, it would destroy the Edgar that Johnny knew and trusted as being Edgar, what he had based his reality, their perfection around...telling Johnny about Scriabin would have more repercussions than Edgar was ever aware of.

Edgar looked at Johnny and was again painfully reminded of just how fragile all of this was. One wrong step, one wrong word, one mistake could destroy everything they both had as Johnny would self-destruct with one unwilling passenger on board.

_How could you do this to us? We could have...he never had to know, how could you..._

_Because I hate you both. Your little sock puppets, those appealing fake cutouts in those conversations you so treasure had a "future," but do you two? Can you two find your fucking 'perfection' when you strip away all the lies that made it seem possible? I guess we'll find out, won't we?_

_We'll both die, I thought you didn't want to-_

_Oh, he can't kill me._

"You can't _change_, Edgar." Johnny stood near a corner with his hands wrapped tightly around his shoulders, shivering and staring at the ground. "You understand, you have to understand, you've always been so good at that, you can't...not now. I need...I need this now, everything's gone except you and, and..."

"I haven't changed, Nny," Edgar said quietly and carefully, and Johnny stopped shaking. Edgar could see his muscles tensing, even from this far away. "What you heard, what was talking to you...that wasn't me. It's not-"

"I was trying to stop it, I was trying to stop it but they just can't stop FUCKING WITH ME-" Johnny kicked the wall savagely, making Edgar jump again. "They've got you already, they've got their sick claws in you and they're taking you, changing you, corrupting you and erasing you until there's nothing left but wet paper where you wrote down your memories-" Johnny held a hand to his forehead, nails digging into his skin. "Goddamn it, I didn't want it to happen to you, I never wanted this to happen to you, it wasn't supposed to affect you, you were never supposed to...you were different, you were good and it wasn't...it shouldn't, you didn't..."

The thought occurred to Edgar that he could blame Scriabin's existence on the lock system, say that Scriabin had come to life very recently and thus take the burden of their relationship being built on lies off of at least that much time, but...

There was no easy solution, and every answer had unpleasant consequences. Edgar again took a breath.

"Nny, he's...it wasn't you. It wasn't your fault he's...he's with me. He...he's always been with me."

Johnny turned and stared hard at him.

"What?"

"I...I have a voice. Like, like you said before, that one time. Like you have voices, I guess I...well, I have one. What happened...what he said earlier, that was him. I didn't know he could possess me like that, if I had known I would have done something-"

_Oh, you can't stop me. You're powerless._

"How long?"

"I...I'm not sure exactly when it started-"

"How long!" Johnny shrieked and Edgar took a step back, his hands instinctively thrown up to protect his body. There was a pause filled only with Johnny's harsh breathing as he stared at Edgar, his knuckles white around the handle of his knife. His entire body shook in waves as he stared at Edgar with an expression he could only describe as insane.

It took a few seconds but Edgar realized that he would have to say something, regardless of how little he wanted to provoke Johnny right now.

"I-It was a gradual thing. He just...I just got used to him, I never thought this would happen..."

Johnny stared at him intently and Edgar felt that he had definitely answered the question wrong. Then, almost too fast for Edgar to register, Johnny turned to look at the floor and his body relaxed, like his screaming fit had never happened.

"So this voice of yours has always been there?"

Edgar knew that Johnny's mood swings were unpredictable, but the bleeding cut on his neck had reminded him of just how dangerous those mood swings could be. He swallowed and tried to keep his voice even. "I don't know...I'm not sure. Parts of him, anyway..."

"He was the one who...?"

Edgar nodded. Johnny stared at him for a few seconds.

"Why would he do that?"

Edgar rubbed his arm self-consciously and noticed that he was wearing his trench coat. Johnny's body had again tightened into a ready stance and Edgar hadn't even noticed it happening. Knife in hand again and the cut on his neck stung and Edgar again was at a loss for what to say. How to defuse the situation.

Thought back to the only thing he could remember at the moment, ingrained rules and guidelines as deeply memorized as his own sense of ethics. Lies beget more lies, and the entire fight was because of lies, so...so honesty was the best policy, wasn't it? They always said it was...

"...He hates you."

Johnny's face darkened and Edgar found that he hadn't stopped shaking or rubbing his shoulder.

"You never told me?"

_Ha. Ha. Ha._

_I swear to fucking GOD, SCRIABIN._

_I am your god, you little puppet._

Edgar found his lips curled in a snarl and his words came out far angrier than he intended. "I didn't- How he feels isn't how I feel, Nny! He's everything I hate, everything I can't stand- How he feels doesn't mean anything, it's how _I_ feel that matters because- because- It doesn't matter how he feels, he's not important-"

"Obviously how he feels _is_ important, because he just took control of your body." Johnny's voice was surprisingly calm, despite his ready stance which only made Edgar more nervous. "This thing inside you hates me enough to possess you and then come and tell me so."

A pause that Edgar wanted to fill, but he couldn't find the words. Johnny tossed his knife to his other hand without taking his eyes from Edgar's.

"Are you telling me that I shouldn't regard him as a threat? Regard _you_ as a threat?"

Something about that hurt in a way Edgar couldn't define. He immediately tried to push the feeling from his mind. "I'm not- I wouldn't-"

_I would._

_Shut up._

"I...I didn't know he could do that." Edgar ran a hand through his hair and gritted his teeth. "He never told me...I didn't know. I never thought he could be that powerful, but, but it doesn't matter." Edgar looked back to Johnny and held his hands out in a hopefully placating way. The look on Johnny's face, his skepticism only reminded Edgar of who had caused this. Rage that he kept out of his voice but used to pick each of his words. "_Nothing_ that he feels matters to me. The only feelings that matter are my own. His opinions are worthless."

Johnny looked at Edgar's fingers, stained reddish-brown.

"You lied to me."

"Yeah..." Edgar let his hands fall. Saying the words felt like something had hollowed him out. "Yeah I did."

A pause where the two stared at one another. Edgar swallowed again and found that he now wished that he hadn't gotten a large soda at the taco place.

"Some part of you..." Johnny took a few steps closer to him and Edgar didn't move away. "Some part of you, in your brain or wherever it is, some part of you _hates_ me." Johnny jabbed a finger in Edgar's chest and Edgar stumbled back slightly. "Some part of you hates me, intensely, deeply enough to take control of your body and come here and insult me. Some part of you hates me enough to try and take you away from me."

_You don't belong to him._

_You shut up, I don't want to hear another word from you_-

"Edgar. This is not just a white lie." Johnny's voice was still strangely calm, but Edgar could see the tendons standing out from Johnny's neck. "You hate me and you never told me."

"I _don't_ hate you," Edgar said harshly and immediately regretted his tone. "I don't hate you, I've never hated you. I told you, he doesn't affect- he's not a part of how I feel. He's an entirely separate person, he's completely different from me. How he feels means shit to me because he's _not_ me. He's not anything like me."

_I'd think you'd be more upset._

_Frankly, my boy, I couldn't care less. No matter how you insult me, I don't think this conversation will go in your favor. I've struck the killing blow and you're just vengefully spraying blood on my new shoes._

"Why didn't you tell me?" Johnny grabbed the front of Edgar's shirt, knife still in one hand. Edgar startled and nearly started coughing, but managed to keep his reaction under control.

_He's suddenly attacked you hundreds of times, and you're still not used to it. Why, perhaps I'm going out on a limb here, but maybe you'll never get used to it. What would that mean, Edgar?_

"Why didn't you tell me before- before everything-...all of it, how much of it was real?" Johnny paused for a few seconds, then started shaking Edgar violently. "How long have you been lying to me! What else have you been lying about!"

Edgar wanted to say something in response but he could barely think at this point. Some part of him dimly recalled that being shaken like this felt kind of like when he had the breath knocked out of him. It was difficult to breathe and his body was panicking and he was fighting as hard as he could not to obey what it wanted him to do, because he knew that would make it worse.

Johnny shouting, his breath just slightly sour in Edgar's face and Edgar forced his eyes to stay open, although he couldn't see much through the blurs of motion. "God- fuck, Edgar, how am I supposed to trust you? You've got some fucking demon in you and you never even told me! You just..." Johnny hissed through his teeth for a few seconds, then his grip on Edgar loosened. "I thought you were..."

Edgar gasped for air and tried to collect his thoughts. His ears were ringing. "Nny, N-nny please try to under, understand." Another deep breath to try and calm his heart. "This, this voice, he's been with me a long...a long time. But he's never...never taken control of me before now."

Edgar closed his eyes for a few seconds. He could feel his blood pumping along the sides of his face, his temples, into his cheeks and his eyes were stinging. His body still panicking, desperately wanting to flee but he fought it, tried to keep it under control. It wouldn't help him, it wouldn't help him, he had to stay calm, he had to stay calm and rational and think this through, find the right words...

"Everything you, you ever saw me do, all of it was genuine. I, I didn't know he could take control of me...he never had before. He never influenced my behavior before. He's been there, but he hasn't..." Edgar took another deep breath and noticed that his shirt wasn't pulled tightly against the back of his neck anymore. Johnny had let him go. "Everything, everything I did was sincere. Everything I ever said...I meant. I'm still the same person I've always been. You have to believe me." Johnny glared and Edgar closed his eyes and kept trying. "You know me. You have to trust me."

A pause and then the grip on his shirt tightened again and Johnny slammed Edgar back against the wall. This time the breath really was knocked out of him.

"I can't- this changes everything!" Johnny shouted. Edgar couldn't respond now and merely choked and gasped for air desperately, his legs giving out beneath him. Johnny let him go to again stalk across the room, and Edgar fell to his knees on the floor. His lungs refused to work and his brain screamed at him, screamed at him to do something, to get help-

"This changes everything, Edgar! How can you not see that? How can you not understand!"

A successful lung-full of air and his body calmed slightly. Edgar looked up and saw Johnny standing near his boarded up window, his hands again folded tightly behind him. He could see the tiny twitches, constant motion of nervous energy that Edgar was afraid would be expressed in a more violent fashion shortly.

"There's nothing to begin with, if what we had before was a lie!" Johnny turned to look at him. Edgar was breathing deep and gratefully, finally finding the strength to push himself back off the floor and onto his feet again. He stumbled and leaned against the wall for support, his entire body still shaking with fear and adrenaline. "We started this, I explained it to you and you agreed, you agreed that we could do it, we could find the perfect...but if you were lying to me, if you were lying than there was nothing, it was all nothing!" Johnny swept out a hand and knocked a collection of empty Freezie cups and Styrofoam containers to the floor. "It was all a lie! Everything, everything you said was a lie! There was never any perfection, there was never even the chance and you never even told me..."

Edgar had gotten his breathing under control, although his legs and hands still shook. He rubbed at his throat, touched the small cut that had stopped bleeding by now.

"Nny-"

"You can't change! That was the entire point, Edgar! How can you do this- This can't happen! This can't happen, that's why I've- that's why I've worked so hard- why I've waited-"

"Do you still have faith?"

"What?" Johnny whirled around and glared.

Edgar didn't know why he said that. Somehow it just came out.

"Do you still have faith in us?"

"What the fuck."

"Do you?"

"How can you even ask me that-" Johnny stomped back over to Edgar, knife in hand.

"Because _I_ do, Nny."

Johnny stopped.

Edgar carefully maneuvered so that the couch was between him and Johnny, talking the entire way. He wasn't sure where the words were coming from, but it wasn't like he had a lot of other ideas at this point. "This voice of mine, he hated you, he was constantly telling me that I should hate you too, that I should cut you out of my life, that I should never see you again, over and over and over day after day after day, but I didn't listen, Nny. I never listened."

Johnny looked skeptical. Edgar tried to keep his voice even, convincing, although he wasn't sure exactly how that should sound.

"I've never hated you. I've never hated you and no matter how hard he's tried to wear me down, I refuse to believe it. I still believe in this, Nny. I believe that perfection is possible, no matter what happens. I believe that you can find your happiness with me someday, you can find that perfection you're looking for. I still believe in _you_. That there's more than just what that system took from you, that there's something more than what you said it made you. I know there's more and I know you can become more. You can find yourself again. I still believe you can become more than what you are, just like you wanted."

Johnny stared at him with an uncomprehending look, as if Edgar was speaking another language. That wasn't the reaction that he was expecting and Edgar felt slightly uncomfortable, then thought that maybe he still hadn't made his point clearly enough.

"I still have faith, Nny. Everything's tried to get rid of it but I still have it. I'm not giving up, no matter what happens, because I believe we can do this. Do you?"

Johnny continued staring at him, knife held loosely in hand. The silence went on for long enough that Edgar felt he should say something, just to ease the discomfort of the situation.

"I'll never hate you, no matter what he says. I wo-"

There was a knock at the door.

Both turned to look at it. Johnny turned and glanced at Edgar for a few seconds, then went to open the door.

Edgar thought about this rather odd event for a few seconds, then realized who the knocker had to be.

"Nny, don't-!"

Johnny had his hand on the doorknob. He looked back at Edgar, confused.

"What?"

"Don't-"

Johnny opened the door anyway.

"I knew you'd come here!" Jimmy walked right past Johnny to Edgar, his tone both accusatory and jubilant. "I knew you'd screw everything up with him eventually!"

Edgar could feel the tension in the room increase exponentially and one look at Johnny confirmed it. Jimmy looked deeply satisfied with himself, again completely unaware of how other people were reacting to him.

"Oh God-" Johnny still stood by the door, Edgar wasn't sure if he could shove Jimmy out in time. "Jimmy, get out of here-"

Johnny stared at Jimmy with distaste, then looked to Edgar for an explanation. Before Edgar could think of one that wouldn't involve Jimmy getting grotesquely murdered, Jimmy's reedy voice again filled the air.

"What? You all sorry now that someone's actually caught you in the act and now he'll see you for what you really are? Think you can make up for your mistake? I don't think so!" Jimmy put his case down by his feet and turned to Johnny with obvious excitement. Something jingled softly as he bounced up and down. "Just watch, Johnny, just watch, this'll be so great!"

_Oh God how could he make this any worse-_ "Jimmy, stop-"

"Who the _fuck_ is this?" Johnny pointed to Jimmy, apparently trying his best to ignore him, and kept looking at Edgar for answers. Jimmy, in the meantime, had knelt down to open the case by his feet.

Edgar ran a hand through his hair and spoke quickly. "He's a kid, don't- he doesn't know what he's doing-"

"Of course I know what I'm doing, I'm your biggest fan!" Jimmy stood up with a knife in hand and turned to Johnny with a broad smile. Johnny recoiled visibly at the sudden attention. "I really admire your work, Johnny, which is why I'm here to help!"

Johnny looked back and forth between Edgar and Jimmy as if they both had grown a new head.

"A _fan_?" The words dripped with disgust and contempt, and Johnny turned to look at Jimmy with an expression that matched his tone. "A fan of _what_-"

_No no no this isn't going well _"Please, Nny, he's just- he doesn't understand-"

"I don't understand? Of _course_ I understand!" Jimmy turned back to Edgar with the knife held at ready, deeply offended. "I understand Johnny better than anyone! I mean, jeez, how many people have YOU killed?"

"What the _fuck_ are you talking about?" Johnny's voice was lowering in direct proportion to how close Jimmy was getting to Edgar. "Just who ARE you?"

"Like I said, I'm your biggest fan!" Jimmy tossed the knife from one hand to the other carefully. "I've been following you for ages! Ever since I saw your work at Taco Hell! I always loved how you'd get revenge on all those people who really deserved it! Like those guys who made fun of you at the café! You always got revenge, REAL revenge like I never could! Well, not until you inspired me to try it myself."

Johnny stared at Jimmy with his mouth open, visibly nauseated.

"But you see." Jimmy's voice was getting louder and more dramatic. "You see, when you met Ed-boy here, he really started to get in the way of things! You started thinking more and killing less! You got all serious and it wasn't as funny as it used to be and that's why I'm here, I want to get you back to the Johnny _I_ know! The Johnny who knew that the _blood _was what mattered! That's what you're missing now, Johnny, and that's what I'm here to help you find! The problem of course is that Ed-boy here is in the way." Jimmy glared at Edgar with obvious jealousy and dislike. "He's got you all thinking that you're something you're not!"

_Oh my god how could this get worse _"Jimmy, get OUT of here!" Edgar took a step back, as Jimmy was getting entirely too close and despite how obviously he was boasting, he apparently did have some skill with the knife. He brandished it at Edgar more menacingly than he would have liked. "You're going to get killed-"

"No, that's the point!" Jimmy made an exaggerated irritated sound. "See, you just don't understand our _connection_! You don't _understand_ Johnny like I do, that's why you two were fighting! If you understood him at all that wouldn't happen! I saw how you reacted to him, to what he did! You're actually _afraid_ of him!" Jimmy sounded disappointed in Edgar and kept advancing. Edgar looked over Jimmy's shoulder at Johnny, who had shaken off his stunned stupor enough to pick up his second knife on the floor.

"You don't understand Johnny at all! Only _I_ can truly understand him!" Jimmy cried with overly dramatic anger and before anyone could react, he pushed Edgar rather hard against the wall.

Edgar, entirely unprepared for an actual physical assault from Jimmy, had the breath knocked out of him for a few panicked seconds. He didn't think Jimmy would actually follow through with his threats, he thought he was just trying to win Johnny's favor- Edgar struggled to breathe and speak.

"Jimmy, you- Nny, don't! Don't, please, don't do anything, don't hurt him, don't-"

In seconds Edgar was again pinned on the floor, this time with a different homicidal maniac perched above him with knife in hand. "Like Nny would ever listen to you! Nny and me, we're brothers of the mind, remember? He just thinks he likes you. The only person he could ever be partners with is someone like me! Once I get you out of the way, me and Nny can become REAL partners in everything!"

"You get AWAY from him!" Johnny's voice was shrill with rage.

Edgar couldn't see Johnny from his current vantage point on the floor but hoped that he wasn't where he thought he was. "Nny, please don't hurt him, he's an idiot but-"

"An idiot!" Jimmy snarled and the knife flashed downwards. "God, Nny doesn't deserve someone like you!"

Edgar struggled to move out of the way but wasn't fast enough. Rather than embedding in his throat as Jimmy must have planned, the knife cut through the side of his neck with a sharp flare of pain that made Edgar give a high gasp. He could immediately feel blood running down his skin, no doubt helped along by the frantic beating of his heart. Oh god he hoped it wasn't that deep, he was feeling lightheaded at this point, although maybe he could blame that on the stress and fear.

He had to keep trying. He had to save him, he couldn't let him die, no matter how stupid he may have been he deserved a life, he deserved to live and Edgar had to try. "Jimmy don't, you don't underst-"

A knife blade pushed through Jimmy's eye socket with a spray of blood and retinal fluid, causing Edgar to shut his eyes instinctually against the spatter. Jimmy gave a surprised, high-pitched scream before the second blade pushed its way through the skin of one of his cheeks with a loud grating sound.

Jimmy was still screaming and Edgar's eyes were now open, although he didn't understand why as this was the last thing he wanted to watch. Somehow he couldn't look away as Johnny gave both knives a sharp twist, causing Jimmy's scream to change in volume and pitch slightly, then ripped them out of his head. Jimmy slumped forward immediately, his own knife forgotten, as his hands automatically went upwards as if to try and stop the flow of blood from his now empty eye socket. Edgar could now see Johnny standing behind Jimmy, the sheer hatred on his face something that Edgar had never seen this close. Johnny twisted one knife expertly to get a better grip and thrust it under Jimmy's chin, catching him unprepared and prompting another shocked scream. The motion continued unabated as Johnny used the momentum to throw Jimmy off of Edgar and to one side, a trail of blood marking his trajectory on the floor and Edgar's clothes.

The blood was cooling on his face, a droplet caught on his eyelashes and Edgar sat up as soon as he was able to, shaking convulsively. He stared forward at nothing, his mouth slightly open, then he looked down at the gore all over his clothes and body, still shaking.

Johnny stepped over Edgar without sparing a second glance and took the few steps required to reach Jimmy, his motions clean and precise. It was never more obvious that the act of murdering another person did not affect Johnny's behavior. He wasn't even shaking from adrenaline. Not a single moment of hesitation.

All of this accomplished within only a few seconds.

Jimmy was shivering and still screaming on the floor.

"Don't you FUCKING TOUCH HIM-"

Edgar wanted to say something, he wanted to say something but his throat had constricted and he could barely breathe. He almost couldn't see through the blood splattered across his glasses as Johnny sank his knives into Jimmy again and again.

"How dare you even _think_ of hurting him-" Johnny's words stumbled for a moment before clarity arrived, before he knew precisely what he had to say. The eloquence that tended to show itself only in moments of pure confidence, increasingly rare around Edgar and now, now Johnny was in his element. Johnny's voice was high, shrill with fury. "How dare you even think that we're anything alike! How can you even imagine that what I do is something to aspire to! That somehow what I do has any merit outside of the justification I give it! The fact that you admire my 'work' as if it was anything more than what it appears to be makes me sick to my stomach! To have someone so shortsighted, so pitifully desperate for some kind of justification for their own hatred and inability to cope makes me want to rip you apart for an eternity! To think that you tried to kill one of the few people out there worth the time and effort to interact with merely to prove your worth to me! The idea of us sharing anything, from a mutual interest to the air in this room, fills me with so much disgust and hatred that I feel like I could vomit out my own stomach! You fucking diseased little _goblin_, how can you be so fucking _blind_-!"

Edgar couldn't really see what was happening, but he could hear Jimmy screaming. He wanted to put his hands over his ears but he couldn't move. He only shivered, shuddered, stared through stained glasses.

"Admire me? Understand me? You fucking tool, you have no idea- you don't understand what you've done, what you represent- fucking admired me, fucking killed people for no _god damn reason_-!" Johnny punctuated his last words with some kind of motion that caused Jimmy's scream to change an octave, although Edgar couldn't quite make out what it was that Johnny was doing and was glad for it. He could still hear the sound of metal digging and piercing through flesh and bone, the scrape and tear and splatter of death.

Johnny stopped for a few moments and Jimmy's screaming slowly died down, enough for him to try and manage some words through vocal cords somehow still intact.

"Why?"

Edgar could hear Johnny's furious panting. Could see the broken, tattered, bleeding mass that once was Jimmy try feebly to get away.

"We're supposed to..." Jimmy choked, shuddered and Edgar heard him retch and blood hit the floor. "We're so much alike..."

Johnny kicked Jimmy in the side hard enough to send him into the wall, and Edgar hid his face in his hands. The iron smell of blood was making him dizzy and he could feel it smearing under his fingers across his skin, across his glasses as he heard the sound of a knife entering flesh over and over and over again, the screaming and sobbing and crying until finally the noise came to an end.

There was a long pause after Jimmy was silent where Edgar didn't know where Johnny was or what he was doing. His hands felt stuck to his face and he was still shaking, still trying to understand what had just happened but it refused to stick, refused to become reality.

_You're in shock._

Even Scriabin's voice seemed miles away.

It felt like years before he heard Johnny move, his boots coming closer, then he felt Johnny's hand on his shoulder.

"What did he do to you? Did he hurt you? Shit, I would have stopped him sooner- the fucking waste of life-"

Edgar pulled his hands from his face with difficulty and turned to look at Johnny.

He had seen Johnny torture two teenagers, he had watched the explosion and vague silhouettes of the carnage at the café, and seen glimpses of when Johnny had dealt justice to the child molester that had gone after Todd.

He had never been this close, seen someone murdered like this. He'd never had their blood cool on his skin, listened to their life ebb away at Johnny's hand. The sheer hatred and control, the lack of remorse needed to drive the blade in so many times, to willingly take someone's life without any hesitation was so incomprehensible to him, so utterly horrifying that Edgar could barely look at Johnny without recoiling. He knew that Johnny was a murderer, he knew it as a fact but he didn't know it as a reality and he had no idea that the reality could be as terrifying as this.

He had never been more afraid of him or felt more distant. He looked at Johnny and all he saw was an inhuman monster. A complete and remorseless sociopath.

A homicidal maniac.

Johnny met his eyes for a second, then looked down at his neck. He felt Johnny's fingers on his skin as he inspected the wound Jimmy left. "It doesn't look that bad, I don't think. Shit. He actually...I can't fucking believe it..."

Johnny was covered in blood.

"You killed him." Possibly one of the stupidest things that Edgar could have said, even by his own judgment, but he had to say it. Some part of him had to say it, make the lines in his head connect again and bring back some element of reality. This was like some kind of hideous nightmare.

Johnny looked at him for a minute, stared with what might have been a doubtful expression, then looked over at Jimmy's body with disgust.

"You're surprised?"

_I'm not._

"Right...right here..." Edgar looked down at himself. Bone and blood and what he was sure where the remnants of Jimmy's eye and his stomach lurched. He put a hand over his mouth and squeezed his eyes shut.

"Edgar?" Johnny still by his side, his hand on his back as Edgar curled up to try and stop the nausea.

"Ggk-" Edgar took a deep breath and felt tears coming from his eyes. "I'm going to be sick-"

Johnny made a noise that sounded like the beginning of a word, but stopped. Another confused, helpless noise and he kept his hand on Edgar's back.

The stink of blood all over him, the scene replaying in his mind over and over again and he could smell that Jimmy had vacated his bowels in his death throes and Edgar heaved and lurched. He turned away from Johnny and vomited on the floor, violently and loudly. His entire body shook and contracted with the force of it, even until there was nothing left and he was dry-heaving through a torn and painful throat.

When it finally stopped after what felt like hours, Edgar could barely move. The room smelled horrible and his vision was blurry and even thought was difficult. He pushed himself to his feet with shaking arms and equally shaky legs. Edgar leaned his head against a wall, breathing hard and using it for support, and he wasn't sure how long he was there.

When he remembered where he was, who he was with, what had happened, he looked around for Johnny but could not see him.

He must have left.

Edgar looked down again and saw the blood on his clothes, his coat. With a strangely familiar shaky, panicked cry, he tore his coat and shirt off and threw them to the floor. In the process he stumbled backwards into an open room and fell. He noticed that his glasses were missing at this point, although he had no idea where they were.

Without his coat and shirt, the cold caused the hairs on his arms to stand and he started shivering again. He stared at the blurry masses in the other room, both trying to forget and remember what had happened.

_I told you he was a murderer. Now that you've seen it first hand, do you understand? Do you understand why you have to get away from him?_

Edgar wasn't sure how long Johnny was with him while he was busy throwing up all over his floor, but he couldn't imagine it was very long. His thoughts were disjointed and broken and connecting in weird ways and he curled up on his side on the floor and stared at the wall, shivering.

_You're not handling this very well, Edgar._

Sometimes shaking so hard he could barely think.

_Edgar?_

Kept staring.

_Edgar, come on. You're not THIS weak are you? So someone got murdered right on top of you. Big deal. You've dealt with worse, haven't you? Oh wait...no, you haven't. Oh well. Get up and get over it, you big baby._

Cold.

_Edgar, cut it out._

_Stop it. I know you can hear me. I know you're there, even if there is all this dead air around me. Stop being such a baby and get up._

_Edgar._

_...I couldn't...I couldn't save him._

Scriabin saw Edgar's moment of weakness, vulnerability, his outstretched hand and attacked.

_Oh, is that what's bothering you? God, what a pathetic waste of time you are. I told you that this would happen. I told you he would die. I told you everything, I told you EVERYthing that would happen and you wouldn't listen to me. You just had to try and save the day and look where it got you! The white knight sure did save the day that time and everyone's certainly much happier for his efforts, aren't they? You and your moral superiority complex- Let me tell you something, that boy was asking for it. He didn't deserve to be saved. Jimmy deserved to die and you know it. You know it and I know it. Stop feeling bad about it._

Edgar didn't stop feeling bad, but he did stop talking.

Stared at the wall and he could hear running water somewhere. Maybe. There was a sharp, acidic smell nearby, unpleasant but he couldn't find the energy to move away. He recognized it...urine. The large soda had definitely not been a good idea.

_Edgar, come on. The silent treatment doesn't suit you._

_...you lied to me._

_Oh, that again. Might as well come clean about it for now. Yes I did. I "possessed" you that time in the car. Well, actually, it was in the apartment first. You just "came back" in the car._

Edgar tried to process the ramifications of this but found it difficult in his current state. He thought back to the panic when he had come back, to how Scriabin had talked him through it, told him to think about something else...

_...you said you didn't know what happened._

_We mental parasites are just such good little liars, aren't we?_ Scriabin's voice was filled with loathing. _Good thing my opinions don't mean anything to you, otherwise the fact I lied might be important._

_I knew that bothered you..._

_Chalk another one up to my score then._

_How could you...how could you lie to me like that? About something so important? You took over my body...my entire body and I didn't remember a thing...how could you lie about that?_

_Do you really want to know why, Edgar?_

_Will I ever?_

_I lied to you so I could do it again._

Edgar shivered. The air was so cold and dry but the thought of putting his blood-stained shirt back on sickened him. The thought of moving at all was difficult.

_So it was all a lie then._

_It's always black and white with you._

_Do you have that yarn in your hair now?_

_...why?_

_Was that a lie? Was all that a lie?_

_Would my answer matter?_

Hard to think and Edgar felt light-headed and he wondered if that cut on his neck was still bleeding.

Edgar thought softly, distantly. _I thought we were close, but you were really a million miles away, weren't you..._

Scriabin was silent for a little while, then he sighed. _I... _His voice hardened with familiar spite and contempt. _Poor baby. Poor confused little Edgar, don't tell me you actually thought I cared about you. How could I?_

Edgar shut his eyes tight.

_How stupid can you be? To think that I would ever care about you- I don't care about you because you don't care about- I don't believe for a minute that it was all an accident, that you ever meant it when you said you were sorry. You always hurt me first. You're such a lying bastard, Edgar. You make me sick. I lied so I could take this pathetic charade of a life away from you and live it properly, and you should thank me for it. _

_I'll never see you again..._

_What?_ Scriabin sounded annoyed. _What's that supposed to even mean?_

"Edgar?"

He heard the sound of boots and he opened his eyes. Johnny walked past the doorway, then turned and came back.

"Oh, there you are."

Edgar pulled his hands away from himself and sat up. He was still shaking fitfully and his hand came up automatically to adjust his glasses even though they weren't there.

His mouth opened and closed several times before noise came out, and then it took a little while before the hoarse sounds came together into words.

"I'm sorry about..." His first response. "About that. I've never...I've never seen...anyone killed like that before. So close to me. I've never..."

Johnny looked at him, curious and uncomprehending, for a few seconds.

"He would've killed you. I know it."

Edgar stared at the vague red mass that he was sure was Jimmy in the other room.

Johnny took a few steps into the room and sat down beside Edgar. He sighed softly.

There was a long silence. Edgar was past feeling responsible for filling them now.

"Do you know what he was?"

Edgar looked at Johnny, squinted to try and make out his expression. Johnny stared at the toes of his boots.

"He was me."

There were a great deal of implications that Edgar could have drawn from that, but in his current rattled state of mind none came to him. "No he wasn't."

"Yes he was, Edgar." Johnny's voice was again, eerily calm. "He was more like me than I ever thought someone could be."

"That's not true." Edgar rubbed his arms to try and keep them warm. Some small part of him wondered if maybe his lack of a shirt would make Johnny uncomfortable, but he couldn't bear the thought of putting it back on. "The two of you aren't alike."

"How can you say that?" Johnny turned to look at him, resting his head on his knees. "You know me. You know more about me than anyone, and you're telling me that that that pathetic, stupid-...that he wasn't like me?"

"Johnny..." Edgar tried to gather his thoughts, but it was still hard to think. He was still shaking and he felt exhausted and drained, but too jittery to entertain the thought of sleep. "I talked with Jimmy before he came here."

Johnny stared at him for a little while.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't have a chance...I was going to, but...things got complicated, and I couldn't. I wanted to. I talked to him though, Johnny, and you're not alike."

"We are alike. Look at this. Look at this entire place, the basements, the bloody walls, the bathtub, all of it. Why? I kept asking myself that, I keep asking myself that still. Why?"

Edgar didn't really know why, but he was pretty sure he couldn't drop out of the conversation, no matter how much he wanted to. "You said once that...that you were acting, um...without...without motive." At least, Edgar thought he said that once.

"Yes..." Johnny stared at his boots. "But there were times when I thought I had a motive, when I thought what I did was just, deserved. You know this...you were there once. When I first...when we first met, I knew that you deserved your death, even before you had a chance to plead your case." Johnny turned and looked at Edgar again. "I was wrong then...how many times have I been wrong? All this time, I've killed and killed people, sometimes for no reason and sometimes for reasons that now seem...petty, and that pathetic child over there, he did the same thing. He may have believed in himself more fervently, truly believed that his murdering was justified, but we did the same thing. Sometimes even for the same reason...admire me..." Johnny ran a hand over his fuzzy scalp. "I had no meaning so I assigned some to myself, to try and justify it all but it's still all the same, it still doesn't mean anything. Everything I've done is just as selfish and petty as what that waste of flesh did, all of it..."

Currently, Edgar wanted to agree simply because he was having difficulty trying to put together a more intelligent response. More than anything he wanted to go home, take a shower, change his clothes, go to sleep, and wake up back before he had ever met Johnny. He wanted to erase everything that had happened, this constant buzzing current of fear that was making him shake more than the cold.

_If only..._

_If only what?_

Scriabin waiting to pounce, so Edgar didn't finish his thought.

"You have to, um..." Edgar struggled to hang on to what he was going to say. "Um...look at it a...a bit deeper than that." He looked at the fuzzy mass that once was Jimmy and shuddered. "For one thing, you're, um, aware of...this. I mean...you're aware that, uh...what you did...with everyone and everything..." Edgar shook his head at how ineloquent he was being. "That all that, um, wasn't justified. Jimmy wasn't aware like that."

"Hmm." Johnny sounded a little disappointed. Edgar guessed it was at how stupid he sounded right now, but he was just glad that he could put sentences together at all at the moment.

"Um, not only that, you have the..." Edgar noticed his eyes were closed and then realized that he'd been silent for almost a minute. He shook his head and struggled to keep talking. "Have the, um...motivation to...to change, Johnny. That's what's important. That's what makes you different. What Jimmy saw and tried to...to, um...emulate, um...was the...the surface of who you are." Edgar ran a hand through his hair, not sure of how to make this more clear. He wasn't sure if he sounded sincere. He wanted to sound like he meant what he was saying but the image of Johnny stabbing Jimmy and the complete lack of hesitation, any kind of moral qualm still horrified and sickened him. That side of Johnny that he had never seen, not that close, still dominated his thoughts and he wondered just how deep the line was drawn in Johnny between the man and the maniac. How easily one could go from one to the other.

_You're still doing it. You're still making the same mistake that got you in this mess in the first place. You pathetic little boy, don't you realize that there is no such line?_

Silence. He had to talk to Johnny, no matter how tired and exhausted and emotionally drained he was, he had to say something...

_Because he'll kill you otherwise, isn't that right? Are you beginning to see the inherent problem in this relationship?_

"Um...do you remember..." Something about the words buzzed in Edgar's head for a few seconds, but he didn't pay much attention. Stress. "Do you remember when you came to my apartment to make the noises quiet down? And, um...do you remember, uh...what we talked about...that we talked at all?" Edgar struggled to remember why he brought this up. He was usually fairly skilled at connecting threads in conversations but now almost all logical conclusions eluded him. He was depending more and more on the hope that what came out of his mouth would make some kind of sense, even if it wasn't connecting in his mind. "Do you think that, that that's what Jimmy wanted to be like?" There, that was something. Maybe he could do something with that. "That he wanted to really be you, and not just this...this, um idealized...avenging version he had of you?" Edgar hoped that this didn't just sound good because he was in an extremely rattled state. "Jimmy idolized what you did, not who you are and...and..."

His head hurt and he was shaking so much it was making him tired. His muscles protested, his nostrils felt dry and it burned when he breathed in, and he kept seeing the remains of Jimmy moving.

"Um, it's possible..." Edgar let his tongue continue. "It's possible to like a person without liking what they do..."

Johnny stared into the distance for a while, then mumbled. "That's all I have left..."

"Um..." Edgar blinked slowly, trying to keep track of the conversation. "Jimmy followed your actions and he thought that your actions, um, defined you as a person, but...but we both know that isn't true." He wanted the scene to stop replaying in his head. He wanted to stop watching Jimmy's eye burst but his mind would not cooperate, it just kept reliving the moment over and over and over again. Each replay brought to mind an emotion or detail that he'd forgotten, kept his emotions stirred up and he was still shaking and he wanted to stop. "There...there are things that Jimmy never...never..." Edgar swallowed, "never saw and that Jimmy could never...understand. He wanted you to be what he wanted you to be, and he believed that's, that's who you were." Edgar sighed, sure that he wasn't getting this across correctly. "The Johnny that I know is more than just a murderer."

_How much more._

"The fact that you've worked so hard and are trying so hard to, to reach that perfection with me...that you're willing to, um, work to...to improve yourself to try and reach that point I think speaks of some, um...some kind of, uh...depth of character, um...a depth of character that Jimmy wouldn't understand. Does that make sense?"

_You're getting quite good at saying things you don't mean._

_Go away._

"Edgar..." Johnny's voice was quiet, but not emotionless this time. "I don't know who I am anymore...I don't know what defined me as a person. The murdering took and took and took everything I had until there was nothing but murder that was constant in my life...and now it's gone. The wall is gone and I don't know...if I can get what it took from me back."

"Well, you didn't just have murder, Johnny." Edgar shivered and kept rubbing his upper arms. "I was there too."

"That's right..." Johnny sighed. "You've stayed constant, but you're not me."

"How about who you were when..." Edgar tried to think of how to phrase what he was thinking of. He was sure there was a pleasant, simple word that would get his point across clearly, but for the life of him now he could not find it. Something...he had to think of something... "When you were with me? Who was that Johnny?" _They're the same person, Edgar. God._ "You didn't murder me," _or more accurately, all his attempts failed in one way or another, and the key word here is attempts, Edgar. Note the s,_ "or murdered people when you were with me, or...well, you did but, not a lot, uh..." That sounded horrible. Edgar hoped if he kept talking Johnny wouldn't notice. "There was someone I was with then, and that's who you have. Um...no, not have. Uh...that's who you are, that's it. Or at least part of it."

_Nice sentence fragments._

"I don't know. I don't know what to do with my life anymore. I don't know how to act. I don't know who I was. Do I start over? I don't want...I don't want to be _that_ anymore." Johnny gestured at Jimmy's body. "I want to be something better...something fixed. I want to be in control of myself again, but I'm not sure if I am...I'm not sure if I ever will be."

Edgar still didn't know how to respond to Johnny's current existential crisis. All he could think of was Jimmy's death. He could still hear his screaming in his head, the sound of knife and the smell and it was all making him sick, made his stomach knot and churn and his thoughts scatter.

"I think, um...with what you're doing...and everything, everything that's...um...happened today, it's a lot to...to deal with, and I don't know...no, I think that it might be hard, but...um, but I think we'll pull through."

_You don't think that. Certainly not now._

"And you..." Johnny looked at Edgar. "You've got...you've got everything happening to you now...all this voice shit...what does that mean? How can you believe that if that's going on?"

He shivered a little, dug deep for something intelligent to say because he knew this was important, he had to say something right. He had to do this right, he had to handle the conversation right, and he had to find the words, the right words somewhere...

"If you lose faith, then you have no hope at all." The phrase reminded Edgar of something very old, but he wasn't sure what it was. His body tensed up, sudden anxiety that he struggled to push away. He turned to look at the wall. "That's how I look at it, anyway..."

"Do you think we'll survive?"

"I think so."

_Can't really answer that question any other way, can you, stupid?_

_You're getting childish... _It was difficult for Edgar to find the energy to keep speaking, internally or otherwise. _Why?_

_Who knows. Your mind is a mysterious thing, isn't it?_

"Do you feel okay?"

"Actually..." Edgar pressed a hand to his forehead. His skin stuck on contact, sticky and cold. "I'm a little lightheaded."

"Oh, that reminds me." Johnny dug in the pocket of his sweater and pulled out a roll of gauze. "I thought you might need this for your neck. It's not that deep, but you should still cover it."

"Thank you." Edgar took the roll and began to wrap it around his neck. He wasn't sure where the cut was exactly as things were a little fuzzy but he felt better doing it. There was something very important...something...

The image of Johnny as the murderer, the monster kept coming to mind and Edgar desperately wanted to think of something to make it go away. To reassure himself that...

_What? That there is no monster? There's always been a monster, you twit, you've just refused to see it. You can't wish it away now. Can't hide it under a veil of well-meaning dementia now, can you? What are you going to do with that monster, Edgar? What are you going to do with the homicidal maniac part of your crazy boyfriend?_

Edgar didn't even feel up to arguing that particular point with Scriabin again. He just needed reassurance of...something. He wasn't sure what, because like it or not Scriabin did have a point, but...something, he wished his thoughts weren't so scattered. Something...

"You know, Nny..."

"What?"

Edgar was on to something but he wasn't sure what. He decided to just follow the string and see where it lead. "Before, you were saying you couldn't trust me...you could never trust me again. That means..." What did that mean? God, he had to focus. He had to try and keep focused. His head still throbbed and he was sure it was Scriabin's fault somehow, like he was kicking the walls with a hollow sound over and over again, furious and

and

Johnny was staring at him.

"What does that mean?"

Edgar had no idea how long he had been quiet, but it was long enough for Johnny to prompt him and that was a very bad thing. He winced, his fingers pressing too hard on the cut on his neck for a few seconds, and he struggled to remember what he was talking about. The initial sharp ache when he pressed too hard but he found his hand returned to his neck and the ache kept him thinking at least. He had to think. "You could never trust me again." That was one of the things he said before. "That means..."

_The issue here isn't him trusting you. That actually might have a sliver of a chance of happening. However, the reversal I don't think-_

Why did he mention trust, why, why... "That means we...we could never reach that perfection you wanted, right?"

Was that what he was trying to say before?

Johnny made a non-commitible noise in response to Edgar's question.

"But even..." The scene kept replaying in his head, going back earlier and earlier to the thousands of chances he must have had to prevent it. He must have had a chance and missed it, if only he had or hadn't... "Even at that point when you thought..." Which point? Could he have pushed Jimmy out of the way? Moved to protect him? Said something? Fought back? Stopped Johnny when the first blade sank in? Stopped him from answering the door, stopped Johnny from, from yelling or...

"When you thought...everything had broken down-" Which everything? What everything? Thinking back further and further, to the argument that started it, the thousands of better responses to Johnny's questions and accusations that now ran through his head. The argument, when Johnny screamed and his knife got too close, and said that, that everything was... "When you thought it was over, that...that the entire thing was ruined and I'd never be what you wanted me to be, when you gave up on me and attacked me and it was over, it was all over..."

It kept playing in his head, it kept playing with Jimmy kneeling over him, knife held at ready, the near-miss of the first attempt at taking Edgar's life and then, and then oh god, god was his memory making it worse or trying to make it better, Edgar couldn't even tell, was there more or less blood-

"When..." Edgar swallowed, feeling sick again and his throat stung horribly. Jimmy above him, knife raised for the successful strike this time and then...

"When...when Jimmy...a-attacked me..." Another swallow and Edgar's throat felt dry and thick, closing off and it was hard to breath. "You... you s-" He choked. His body spasmed in a violent coughing fit, doubling over and Edgar raised one hand to cover his mouth without thinking about it, kept his eyes shut tight.

"You s-saved me."

Johnny didn't say anything for a while, and the only sound was Edgar's pained wheezing as he tried to recover. He could not recall a time in his life when he had ever felt this terrible, physically and emotionally.

Edgar opened his eyes and stared directly ahead, trying to keep his train of thought. "You...saved me and..." His body rebelled against the word, the concept and he shut his eyes tightly again. "If you couldn't trust me...if the whole thing was over, ruined, destroyed like you thought then..."

Then what? It hovered just out of reach, so close and he just needed to focus, he needed to keep focused.

"It wouldn't matter if I died or not." That was something, but Edgar wasn't sure if he was understanding his own words at this point. "It wouldn't matter 'cause it'd be over...do you know what that means?"

Edgar meant the question in all seriousness, as he had an idea of what it meant himself but in his current state he wasn't sure.

Johnny still didn't say anything.

"Well, what I think it means is..." Edgar shivered again and found he couldn't stop. The shaking was rhythmic, almost comforting. He held on to his knees until his knuckles turned white and the muscles in his arms and hands burned. "What I think it means is..."

Jimmy screamed and screamed and screamed.

"What I think it means is..."

_I know what it means._

"What I..."

Edgar caught some movement at the corner of his eye, but he didn't turn his head.

"What I think it means is..." _Focusing too much on the words, making them a rhythm too. Can't do that, think clearly. This sentence has an end._

_Edgar, are you actually talking to yourself for once? What an odd thing to do._

"What I think it means is that..." One more word, on the right track. "What I think it means is that you have faith too." Now that the sentence had an end, it seemed almost anti-climatic to him. Somehow Edgar expected something more. Had to go with it now, had to keep following the thread.

"Even if you don't know it. It means you have enough faith in us so that even when we fight and even after you say you can't trust me again you still think we can reach it, we can reach that perfection." Talking fast and Edgar hoped he was making sense, that letting words go by without more consideration wouldn't be a mistake. "You believe it enough to s-...save me, even after you said everything's all ruined." Edgar thought Johnny said that, anyway. "I think you believe that we can do it."

_You don't think that at all, you little liar._

"Interesting..." Johnny didn't sound interested at all. That was a little unnerving.

_I'm not lying._

_You sound so desperate. It won't win any points with me._

_I don't want points from you, I don't want anything from you._ Edgar's rattled emotions began to refocus, to remind him of why he had even ended up here in the first place, and the consequences that had been overlooked when Jimmy had...

_Why..._

_You know me better than that._

_I don't know you at all._

_Thank you, my dear, for so beautifully illustrating my point._

"Nngh." Edgar pressed his hands to his head as the throbbing intensified. Johnny moved but didn't say anything, and Edgar didn't see exactly how he moved. Edgar tried to remember what had happened between his car and Johnny's house, but it remained stubbornly blank. There wasn't even a hole in his memory, a black period he could fill with something else. Just from his car to the house with no noticeable jump in time...like two pieces of film edited together.

_What did you say to him?_

_What you never could._

"Nny...when...when I wasn't...myself, earlier...when he was in control, what did he say to you?"

Johnny was silent for a few seconds, staring at Edgar hard. Confused, afraid, some negative emotion, that Edgar knew for sure. He apparently had reminded Johnny of the other problem that now faced them.

Johnny shook his head. "This voice of yours...it can possess you now. Take complete control of your body, like some kind of meat-puppet. Working the strings..." Johnny turned to look at him. "You didn't know that he could do that until now. You didn't know that your body could be so easily taken out of your control. You said you don't remember what happened, well then, he could have been doing it this whole time. How do I know? How do you know? This changes everything."

"It might..." Edgar sighed. He was in no state of mind to try to refute Johnny's points intelligently at the moment. "I don't know. I can't say for sure. I think, though, I think that we'll be okay." He wasn't sure where that sentiment had come from.

"Why?"

"I just...I just do."

_Or do you?_

"Edgar," Johnny said and Edgar felt his muscles tense at his tone despite himself. Scriabin may have had a point, he had been feeling more complacent around Johnny in recent times. Now almost every motion and change in tone spelled potential death and Edgar's nerves couldn't take much more of this. "I want to know more about this voice of yours."

Edgar really didn't want to talk about Scriabin, especially not now.

"What do you want to know?"

Johnny didn't notice Edgar's reluctance to discuss this. "Everything. Start from the beginning. Tell me everything about him, what he is, where he came from. I have to know so I'll be able to protect you."

A stumble, and Edgar could tell by how soft Johnny's last words were that he hadn't intended to say that much.

"Protect me from what?"

"Your voice first. I want to know."

Edgar did not feel like he was in the position to argue at this point.

"Um..."

_You don't seem as worried about me talking about you as you were with Devi._

_I couldn't care less about Nny or what he thinks. He can't touch me. Nothing can touch me anymore._

_Hubris._ The thought crossed his mind, not necessarily directed at Scriabin but he heard it anyway.

_Call it whatever you want, doesn't change the fact that your body is my elaborate puppet now, you tool, _Scriabin said with more anger than he probably intended. _Nothing you say matters to me anymore. I know how to do it and I'll keep doing it, and you can't stop me._

An entirely different problem for a different time, and Edgar sighed and shook his head. He still felt cold and dizzy and God he wanted to go home.

God, he wanted to go home.

"His name is Scriabin."

"Like from that stupid pretentious movie?" Johnny wrinkled his nose in disgust, and Edgar blinked.

"You saw it?"

Johnny shrugged and rolled his eyes. "Why that movie? It was such pop-culture garbage with a thin veneer of philosophy to try and make it seem deep."

"Look, I don't know." Edgar was having difficulty separating Johnny's attack on the movie from an attack on him personally. "I never saw it. It just- when Todd gave me the action figure-"

"You talked with Squee?" Johnny seemed a bit more interested now. "Are you friends with him?"

"I visited him, yeah," Edgar said, distracted. "He's a good kid. I had to take him home once but he's okay, last I saw of him anyway."

Johnny smiled genuinely at this. He seemed somewhat relieved.

"I was wondering how he was doing lately."

"Um, anyway, he gave me the action figure and that's where the name came from." Edgar's head throbbing harder and he pressed a hand to his forehead. "I thought you saw it, it's in my room."

Johnny was quiet for a little while. When he spoke again his voice was dark and low. "It didn't fit."

Edgar had no idea what he was supposed to read into that, so just continued, hoping that the faster he told the story, the faster this could be over with and then...

_What? You'll just go home? Do you think you can just go home after this? That's not why you're here._

"Yeah, well...that's where his name comes from." One part down. "I think, um...in terms of where he came from, I think that he's always been...well, been with me in one way or another, but he just started, um...talking after I met you." This felt like torture. Faster, faster, cut corners and get this over with. "Then he just gradually got louder and louder and...apparently he's a lot more powerful than I gave him credit for..."

"This is the first voice you've ever had?"

"Yeah...I've never..." Edgar paused to process how casually Johnny asked his question. "I've...uh." Edgar shook his head. "Um, he's the only voice I have, so...you don't have to worry about that, or anything..." Edgar wasn't even sure if that was an issue, but why not be safe.

"Hmm." Johnny looked thoughtful. Edgar was surprised that he wasn't dead right now, although with how bad he felt, he didn't think being dead would feel much different. "So it isn't a long-term thing like with me then...what's he like?"

"Scriabin..." Edgar's head was pounding and he felt like the blood was draining from his fingers. The floor was slowly shifting up and to the left, despite his best efforts to convince himself that it wasn't. "He's...he's nothing like me." _The most important part._

_What's that supposed to mean?_

"He's..." _attractive._ "Vain, arrogant, selfish, manipulative," _confident._ "Sadistic...a compulsive liar," _a realist._ "A pessimist..."

"So he antagonizes you?" Johnny's ease with the subject reminded Edgar that hearing voices telling him what to do wasn't unusual for Johnny, and that was the last thing he wanted to think about right now.

"Not...exactly. He's a liar but...there are times when I really feel like..." He didn't want to say this, want to say it, admit it, validate it by letting someone else give an opinion, make it real. Not this, not this, everything he'd done wrong glaring him in the face and he wanted to stop talking, he wanted to lie and say something else. "He's told me..." There was no way to phrase this, to erase it, and he had to say something, he had to tell Johnny something but what, how to explain this right without making him feel like he had made such a huge mistake, that he really was this gullible. "He'd tell me that...sometimes it seems like...he cares about me." Physical pain and Edgar wasn't sure what caused it. "I don't know. Things have happened...and maybe he's fought things for me, or something...? God, I can't even tell, he just...all this time..." _He lied, he lied, he lied, he lied_

_What the fuck did you expect?_

"I can't believe he never...I mean, before it was like...maybe he wanted to be my friend or something." Edgar growled and pressed his hands against his temples until he felt his arms shaking. "I just...I just, what he says makes sense but I don't want...sometimes he's..." The thought of their false childhood came back to Edgar, and he let the pressure go. His body thanked him with a surge of relief. "Sometimes...I want to help and protect him too, sometimes I feel like...like he's so close to me, like he's..."

Edgar buried his head in his arms, curling tightly into himself.

"And...and he never told me. All this time and he never...never told me. I don't know why, I don't know why I believed him, why I let him- he lied to me before about everything, I don't know why I didn't..."

Edgar took a deep breath. "I...this isn't the first time that he's possessed me. I think he did it once earlier, but..." Edgar gritted his teeth. "He lied to me. He told me he didn't know what happened, that I had just blacked out and who knew what happened and...and I believed him. God, I can't believe-! I just...I don't know what he wants from me, I don't know if he was lying about protecting me, if he was lying about that attack that he fought off, he was lying about everything just so he could gain my trust and steal my body away from me-"

"I see," Johnny said, and something about his voice made Edgar believe him. Edgar's furious shaking subsided a little.

"He always lied to me," Edgar said, his voice a little more under control. "He's never really liked you. He was always fighting with me about you, about what I should do about you..."

Johnny made a soft humming sound, but didn't say anything.

"He thought you were...well, that you were dangerous, and that I should stay away from you..." Edgar closed his eyes. "I didn't listen though."

"Why not?"

Edgar didn't expect Johnny to interrupt him, and he paused. "I think...there were more important...no, I think that..."

_Tell him the truth, tell him that you were afraid he would kill you for it. Go ahead, while we're being so honest._

"I think that...there were..." Edgar couldn't find the right words. "I'm sorry, I'm a little dizzy. Something like...there was something more important than being afraid, than me being afraid...something like that. I'm sorry, my head is spinning right now. I-"

"Why didn't you stay away from me? I've been meaning to ask you...you remember when we had that...argument, right before I died?"

"Mmhmm."

"You came to look for me...you found me after the gun went off. After everything I had said and done. Why?"

Edgar couldn't remember why now. He wasn't sure if he even had a reason back then, it was just something...something he had to do. "I...I had to. I thought you were hurt, I had to go see if you were okay, I couldn't just leave you-"

"Why?"

His head still throbbing and Edgar felt the strange desire to start crying, although he didn't know where it came from or why. He forced it down deep and tried to stop shaking. "I don't know." _How can you ask me that? Why can't you understand-_

_Hello? He's CRAZY, Edgar. CRAZY. How many times must we go OVER this?_

"Why do you keep talking to me? I keep talking to you because you're sane, and you're nice, and I like you. Why do you keep talking to me?"

"I don't know!" Edgar's voice broke and he kept his face hidden. His head ached and he wanted to go to sleep or take some aspirin or something to make this pain stop. He could feel his heart beating in his ears and he was getting _so tired of it_. "Ngh, God, I feel like you need me. Shit, I mean, I like you too. God, my head hurts..."

Johnny didn't say anything and Edgar didn't look up to see his expression. He was sure that his insinuation that Johnny needed anyone right now would not go favorably.

"I do need you," Johnny said thoughtfully. "I wonder if it's for the reason you're thinking of?"

"Do you have any aspirin?"

"Your head hurts?"

He couldn't do this, he couldn't do this, it had to stop. It had to stop, it had been pounding and pounding and pounding. "Yes."

"Hmm. Not now...Edgar, that voice, Scriabin, he's always been there?"

_Fuck! God- rrgh-_

_Was that directed at me? I don't think it was!_

"Yeah, I..." Edgar forced his jaw to unclench and took a deep breath. "I think so. Pretty much."

"So the Edgar I've come to know..."

"It's always been Edgar and Scriabin. Nothing's really changed, not the way you think." Edgar didn't think Johnny would understand the concept he was trying to get across, but he wasn't sure how he could phrase it any better.

"No, Edgar." Johnny's voice had an edge of annoyance in it. "Things have changed. Everything, everything about you, everything we ever talked about, everything we did, all of it...just erased. All gone. Meaningless. Built on sand."

Edgar sighed deeply.

"So you don't have any aspirin then."

"The question is where these sand castles were constructed, and what will happen to them now." Edgar groaned as Johnny's voice leveled into his typical ranting tone. "I didn't know, you didn't know that it had gone this far. The thing though is that regardless of that fact, we've come too far and you've come too close. You've touched something you shouldn't have, and as a result you're in something you shouldn't be. Possibly because of me." Johnny sounded strangely unconcerned with this potential responsibility. "A touch and a change, and now there's a mark, and there's something more important here. There's a matter of your mind, Edgar, that precious thing that separates us from the other human filth. It's your mind that's kept you alive, Edgar, it's your mind that's kept me with you, and I think it's your mind that inspires my 'faith', as you put it. Whether or not the mind you presented to me is the reality is a difficult question, one that we'll have to explore more in depth when we have the chance, but there's a more immediate threat we should be focusing on. Has Scriabin changed at any point recently?" Something about how easily Johnny said Scriabin's name made Edgar feel sick. "Has he been acting differently? Making his toy move, something like that?"

"Why?" Edgar struggled to ignore the throb of blood through his temples. "What does it matter?"

"This is important, Edgar. I have to know this."

Edgar at this point remembered something that Johnny had mentioned but hadn't elaborated on. "What, to protect me from whatever it is?"

Johnny didn't say anything, so Edgar continued.

"What is it that you want to protect me from? What's coming after me? I think if we both know we might have a better chance."

_Your best protection would be to get away from him._

"Do you remember when I said that I felt like my actions were getting out of my control?" Johnny eventually said. Edgar made another affirmative noise. "That wasn't the only thing that the system took from me...it took my voices away from me. I've always heard voices, at least, as far back as I can remember, but it took two voices that I'd had for a long time and...twisted them, changed them just enough so that they were moving me along the path it wanted. Manipulating me for their own gain."

"You think I'm part of this system now?" Edgar thought as much, but he wasn't sure if he and Johnny had ever discussed this previously.

"Probably," Johnny said with some reluctance. "That's why I'm worried that...it might be trying to do the same thing to you as it did to me. Take everything away from you until you're just action with no meaning behind it..."

"Drive me insane..." Edgar mumbled.

Johnny paused, then gave Edgar one of his broken smiles. Edgar hadn't seen one of those in a long time, and they still made him shudder. "I think I was insane before the system really got to work. It still didn't help though."

Edgar hid his face in his arms and tried not to throw up again.

"But you, you're not insane. You're not insane like I was before, so it's going to have to try harder with you, to twist your mind around and take it all away. Make you think you're doing what you want, hiding the fact that you're working as its slave for some fear or..."

Deep breaths, in and out.

"What it might try to do with Scriabin is that it might try to take him over, to shift him just enough so that you won't notice, but he'll really be working against you. Trying to hurt you. The fact that he possessed you is a bad sign. To me, it seems that the system might be increasing its efforts, to try and get you under its control faster. Scriabin may already be working against you as we speak, a servant of the lock system."

_Please stop saying his name._

_I'M NOBODY'S FUCKING SERVANT. I FUCKING-_

_Don't yell. Please._

"Do you understand the issue here, Edgar? My concern is that my proximity to you is..." Johnny paused, searching for a word. Edgar couldn't move in fear of jolting his stomach just enough to break his weak hold on its contents. "My proximity to you is detrimental to your mental well-being. I've noticed your odd behavior, and I believe I may just be making it worse for you. That's why I wanted to spend some time away from you, to make sure. But then...then you came back."

Edgar wanted to vocalize the internal ache and pain, the discomfort his body was experiencing, but he kept it limited to his throat constricting, but no air coming through. He wanted to go home, he wanted to go home, go home and go home and

"I've elaborated to you before my fear of decay. The inevitable goodbyes and bad memories and tarnish on the surface of what should be a beautiful memory. You can never forget the mistakes, no matter what the beauty of it is. This is why I want to kill you, but now I don't know who I've really been working with, or what future there may possibly be. You lied to me, you lied to me about who you were and who I was talking with, and that changes things. That ruins things, just like I was trying to avoid. It ruins everything, and the future only seems to speak of further ruin if this process can't be reversed. I wanted to reverse it, Edgar, I wanted to get that perfection we wanted, but you were lying to me this whole time, and now..."

Something about Johnny's wounded, self-aggrandizing tone, the passive-aggressive implications in it, his inability to simply understand what Edgar was trying to get across, pushed Edgar into action. At least, Edgar thought it was his own action, although it all happened so quickly it was hard to tell. The fact that now he couldn't be completely sure that what he was doing was his own decision...

Edgar lifted his head slightly, just enough to look at the floor and he clenched his hands into fists. With the last remnants of strength, he shouted, "Then why don't you just kill me now and get it over with? If everything's as fucked as you say it is, then what's the point! You might as well just kill me and- and cut your fucking losses!"

His head ached with the increase in volume and Edgar again buried his head in his arms, this time groaning beyond his control. God, he didn't mean that. He wanted to go home and go to sleep and forget, just stop thinking for two seconds, stop seeing Jimmy's death over and over and over again-

Cold touches across his skin for the briefest moment, then Edgar was on his back on the floor, Johnny again in position above him to strike the killing blow. His knife held ready and he stared down at Edgar with what wasn't a hateful expression, which was what Edgar was expecting. He wasn't sure what the expression on Johnny's face was, although he guessed that maybe it was

_No it isn't. It's not regret and it's not hesitation._

_Then what is it?_

_He's not my boyfriend. You figure it out._

_He's not my-_

Edgar was almost too tired to truly react, although his body tried gamely to muster up a sufficient panic reaction. Johnny's eyes gleamed and Edgar guessed that maybe he'd start crying at some point. Maybe his death really would affect Johnny somehow, although that would mean that he had stopped seeing Edgar as a concept and actually began seeing him as a person.

_You know what? You don't think he can do that. For all your defending of him, of his decisions, of your pseudo-relationship, deep down you don't think that he can ever do that. That he'll ever look at other people as anything more than semi-human, and that you'll ever even make it that far. And you wonder where I get it from._

He stared into Johnny's eyes without blinking, without reacting. His face lax and he just watched Johnny, looked into his eyes for those depths that they were said to contain and he just saw his eyes, saw emotion he couldn't identify because he was just no good at this.

He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, kept eye contact and didn't move. His heartbeat sped up, his body shivered in a feeble attempt at flight, but he didn't say anything.

He looked into Johnny's eyes and didn't see anything.

_Look at me,_ Edgar thought to no one in particular. _Look at me._ Someone in particular now. _This is it. I'm done._

_You just think you're done,_ Scriabin said in an odd voice.

_Everything's done._ Edgar blinked slowly, and when his eyes were closed he could feel his heartbeat under his eyelids.

_This is my time._

_No it isn't._

Johnny panted above him, although why he hadn't struck yet was beyond Edgar. Johnny breathed hard, his hand shaking just slightly and he stared at Edgar with something that Edgar guessed might have been close to fear. Something like that, although it was hard to say for sure. His arm quivered and Edgar was sure that any minute now, the nightmares he'd long had would come true and this time, Johnny would kill him.

_He won't kill me._

Edgar felt like he should say something meaningful about what was going on, but he found his mind blank and decided that silence would work just as well.

The knife descended and his body flooded with pain. A quick rush and the tingle of blood, nerves, skin reacting to the new wound. Johnny's knife was deep in the flesh of his upper right shoulder and that was all Edgar could think of logically.

He wanted to remain stoically silent but it takes a rare kind of man to stay quiet when they get stabbed in the shoulder, and Edgar was not that kind of man, regardless of what he thought about the matter.

He screamed, short and agonized and snapped back into a hissing groan through his teeth. His eyes shut tight, tears beginning and even though his teeth remained tightly gritted together, his pained cries were quite clear.

He gasped, quick and fast and tried to keep his hoarse whines to himself and he looked at Johnny. Johnny leaned close over him, his hand still tight on the grip of the knife, his eyes focused on Edgar's face.

Edgar's resolve broke and he gasped out another loud, shaky cry to one side as his jaw released. Without thinking, words came to him, simple and strangled. "Oh fuck- _fuck_\- God, oh God, fuck...!"

The next thing that Edgar knew was that both Johnny's hands were on his face, turning him to face him properly. Edgar panted, stared at Johnny in confusion and waited for his hand to return to his knife, to strike again.

Edgar wanted to say something, anything, but he could only make a gurgling, scared sound.

"Edgar." Johnny held on tight to Edgar's face and stared him directly in the eyes. He looked dead serious in a way that still seemed inappropriate for the situation, as much as Edgar was in the state of mind to think about such things.

Edgar tried to say something, stopped to gulp down air and try to think past the screaming in his mind, the pain that kept burning and pulsing through his upper body.

"What?" It wasn't the most intelligent thing that Edgar could have said but it was his instinctual reaction to the question. He tried to arch his neck and lean his head back, to move to do something to stop the pain, but Johnny wouldn't let go.

A pause where Edgar could feel his heart pumping blood out of this new hole in his body. Johnny stared and this time, Edgar could see that at least he felt conflicted. That much seemed clear. Thoughtful, expressions flickering quickly, Johnny considering something important and Edgar remembered this, remembered this somehow from long ago when he was staring death in the face and then, and then against all logic, against all logic somehow it had reconsidered...

"Edgar," Johnny said, as if this somehow explained everything. Edgar stared at him desperately, wishing to anything that had the power or inclination to listen to stop this agony.

"What?" Edgar's voice cracked halfway through the word.

Another slight pause and Edgar gave a keening cry through his sobs for breath. If there was any mercy God please

Johnny smiled slowly at Edgar, the tips of his fingers digging into Edgar's skin just slightly.

"Vargas." Johnny backed away, let his hands slowly move away from Edgar's face. Edgar stared, confused and approaching delirious. He still gasped desperately for breath while Johnny stared him serenely, the same twisted smile on his face. "Edgar Vargas."

"Yes!" Edgar shouted, then gritted his teeth together and hissed. "Yes, yes, yes!" He was sure he wanted to say more than that, but his tongue would only cooperate with that word.

Johnny kept watching him for another moment more, another lifetime and then he reached out one hand and took hold of the knife's handle. His smile not faltering in the least, he yanked it out of Edgar with a spray of blood. Edgar, completely unprepared, gave a shocked scream of pain and immediately pressed his hand over the wound. He stared at Johnny, confused and lost.

"Edgar Vargas." Johnny held the bloody knife in one hand, touched the tip with one free finger. Still smiling, eerily, and he looked at the blade.

"Ugh God," Edgar gasped, air not coming in quickly enough. "Oh God m'bleeding to death oh fuck-"

He wasn't aware that he was speaking out loud. Johnny tilted his head at him and his smile didn't falter.

"You won't bleed to death, Edgar." His voice strangely cheery for the topic.

"Why not?" Edgar screamed at him, his entire body shaking now and the edges of his vision were going black, he was losing focus and dizzy spinning going

Johnny swayed slightly from side to side, smiling serenely at Edgar as if he couldn't see what he had done. "The mystery of Faith."

"Oh god what the _fuck-_" Edgar attempted to curl into a ball, but Johnny's position didn't let him accomplish this. "I'm going to, I'm going to, agk-"

Johnny closed his eyes, both hands on the grip of the knife now and he held it above Edgar's chest. He angled his face just slightly upwards, still swaying from side to side and still smiling.

Edgar attempted, as best he could, to move out of the way, but he had no chance. He couldn't breath, his air was getting sucked away from him and he was drowning, his head was going to explode and the pain from his shoulder was devouring his body whole. Oh God, God please, please someone

Back and forth, back and forth.

"Edgar Vargas," Johnny said in a pleasant, jovial tone. Edgar took a deep breath to say something but must have made a mistake as he then went limp, blind, deaf, and gone.


	24. Split

Edgar woke up in a bathtub.

While he was technically awake, it took several seconds for thought to return to him and for his eyes to focus and connect what he saw to words and concepts.

_Ngh..._

A bathtub. Porcelain, or whatever it was they made bathtubs out of. It had been stained from white to a dingy pink, probably from faded blood. An ugly, familiar blanket covered his legs. There was a cabinet under the sink near his feet, a wall cupboard set above the bathtub. The cupboard door was slightly ajar and Edgar could make out glints of light off of something. Weapons he could guess, but he wasn't...

Wearing his glasses...

Despite how unappealing the thought of moving was, he raised a hand to touch his face for sure. His glasses were gone. He trailed his fingers further downwards. The gauze was still wrapped around his neck. He could feel his heartbeat.

A little lower, and he could feel the edge of fabric near his neck.

He looked down. He was wearing a tight black and white striped shirt, long-sleeved and worn in several places. As for his shoulder, it looked like someone had taken a towel and duct-taped it to it.

Edgar still ached, continuously, and he settled back and tried to think.

_That's my blanket._ He looked down at his legs. _That's my blanket from the trunk._

He sat quietly, shifted a little and noticed that something felt tight on him. He lifted the edge of the blanket. Dark jeans, too short and too small.

A few more moments to consider this, to look around the room and at the tiled floor where streaks and smears of blood marked boots and past struggles.

_What happened?_

_What do you think?_ Scriabin muttered.

_Did Johnny do this?_ Edgar leaned his head back on the edge of the tub and stared at the ceiling. _Could Johnny do something like this?_

Scriabin snorted, but didn't say anything.

_I'm not wearing my clothes...I'm not home, my shoulder's wrapped up-_

_Badly, I might add._

_Did he do this?_ Edgar felt dizzy. He tried to move his right arm and the resulting flood of pain immediately put an end to that.

_He certainly did that._

_No, I mean...did he do this? Did he take care of me?_

Scriabin was silent for a little while.

_Why would he?_

Edgar looked down at the blanket.

_I don't know._ He tried to think. _He's...he's done something like this before._

_Ah yes, when he clubbed you into unconsciousness then bandaged it up and sent you home all smiles. What fun that was._

_He must have...he must have done this._ Edgar's stomach gurgled. _How long was I out..._

_I have no idea._

_It must have been Johnny. Who else would have done this...?_ The sudden recognition of his hunger caused it to hit him full-force, to the extent that it actually made him slightly sick.

_Maybe I did it._

Edgar didn't dignify that with a response, instead setting his good hand against the side of the tub. He noticed some empty bags of snacks on the floor at this point, along with some paper cups.

_Didn't think that would fly._ Scriabin didn't seem too surprised. _So, let's say that Johnny did do this. Why would he?_

_I don't know._ It was still somewhat difficult to think. Edgar felt weak and tired and hungry, and the pain stayed beneath it all. _He's the one that stabbed me in the first place._

_Meaning...?_ Scriabin prompted.

_Meaning that he must have felt that things were over, or he didn't want things to get any worse. Or...something like that._ Edgar had a headache, although this was no surprise. _Did he change his mind?_

_You think he won't kill you?_

_I mean...did he decide that wasn't the right time? Maybe that's it. Maybe..._ Edgar grunted as he tried to lever himself out of the bathtub with only one arm.

_Where do you think you're going?_

_What?_

_Where are you going?_

Edgar hadn't really thought of that. He just felt that he had to get out of the bathtub, nothing further. _I'm not sure._

_Are you going to look for Johnny?_

Maybe that was it. _Maybe._

_Pardon me for being a "realist" but I think you should look for food. That's slightly more important._

_You're the one who said you were a realist, not me-_

_Food then find a hospital, for god's sake. I can't imagine how much blood you lost._

_Why do you care?_ Edgar snapped somewhat childishly as he slipped and fell back into the tub.

_Same body, my dear. We share the same body,_ Scriabin said very slowly. _Don't tell me you've forgotten?_

_And you don't care about me, you care about my body._ Edgar felt his lip curl as he remembered some of the other revelations from before his black out. _You've just been using me this whole time._

_You wound me deeply._ Scriabin's voice dripped sarcasm. _Truly, you know how to cut me to the quick._

_Answer me. Answer me for once, Scri. You don't-_

_Don't you fucking call me that. It's too late for that now._

_What do you mean it's too late?_

_What do you think?_

_Stop it! Stop it, God, I am fucking SICK of you doing that whenever I ask you a question! Fine! You know what I think? I think you meant that it was too late because I know what you're doing now. I know that you've been lying to me. It's too late for you to pretend to be that close to me._

_Wrong. Not even close, actually. Want to try again?_

Edgar leaned his head back and closed his eyes. _You lied to me. You lied to me about everything. How could I have ever cared about you? God...how could I have ever, ever thought you could be my brother?_

He expected another sarcastic rejoinder, but Scriabin was strangely silent in response to that.

_All you do is hurt me. That's all you've ever done to me. I just got so used to it that I just...thought that there was something more. I made something more. I made you into more than what you were because I couldn't believe someone could be that dedicated to hating me, and I was wrong. You used it against me, used my...my optimism against me. Why was I so stupid? Why did I ever trust you?_

Scriabin still didn't say anything. Edgar let loose a shaky breath. His entire body was tensing, although he could tell from the ache and reluctance that he was still physically exhausted. He must not have slept for very long.

_I remember how happy we were. How happy you said we were...God, how...how I didn't feel alone and just, all that emptiness gone and we were happy about it, and..._ Edgar's eyes stung. _And I was wrong. I was wrong. You really are just a heartless, manipulative bastard._

There was a pause.

_You never cared about me,_ Scriabin said quietly.

_What-... of course I did. You were there._

_You never really cared about me._

_God- why are- what does- are you trying to make this worse?_

_What else do I do?_ Scriabin's voice was still quiet.

_The reason this fucking hurts so much is because I did care about you, you ass! _Edgar opened his eyes and started to pull himself out of the tub again. He gritted his teeth and felt his good arm shaking violently as he tried to angle himself out. _God, fuck you!_

Scriabin didn't say anything.

It took some effort, but Edgar finally did manage to get his upper body somewhat out of the tub's confines, although it jarred his wounded shoulder painfully in the process. Some awkward fumbling and maneuvering later and Edgar fell onto the bathroom floor, wincing at the impact. Glad no one was around to see that.

He waited for a few more minutes to get his breath back, then stood on shaky legs. Edgar cautiously made his way to the bathroom door, torn between being as quiet as possible or calling out to Johnny to see where he was. Johnny probably didn't expect him to be up and moving.

_What do I really have to lose at this point?_

"Nny?"

Edgar walked out into the hallway. He could see a smear of blood marked along the floorboards, although he couldn't see its beginning or end. He could faintly hear something in the background, music or talking. Probably a television.

"Nny?" Edgar carefully made his way towards the sound. Although his progress was slow, he eventually made it to the living room, where Johnny sat in front of a flickering television, eating chips.

Johnny didn't turn to look at him.

"Nny...?"

Johnny's head snapped in his direction, and he stared at him with obvious surprise.

"Edgar! You're up..."

Edgar looked at his shoulder and back to Johnny, not sure if he should come any further in.

"Yeah." He didn't know what else to say.

There was a pause as the two looked at each other.

_No smart comment?_

_I'm thinking. Can you not hear my voice for two minutes without nagging me?_ Scriabin fairly snarled. _I'll talk when I want to, and right now I'm busy._

Edgar wasn't sure what caused Scriabin's sudden flare of anger, but if he wanted to be quiet, fine. He wasn't going to complain.

"I bet that hurts."

"Hmm?" Edgar realized he had been staring off into space and he looked back to Johnny. Johnny pointed at his shoulder with a potato chip.

"That."

Edgar looked at it again. He wanted to believe that Johnny had used a clean towel, but he was pretty sure he hadn't. It definitely didn't look clean now. God, he hoped he wouldn't get a disease from it or something.

"Yeah. It does."

They stared at each other again. Edgar wasn't sure how this could get more awkward and uncomfortable.

_I might...I don't have much else to hide now. I might as well just ask..._

"Why'd you do it?"

Edgar said that with a great deal more calm and grace than he thought he would. Johnny slowly turned to look back at the television.

"I'd rather not talk about it."

Edgar twitched a muscle in his arm and the ache intensified in response.

What did he have to lose at this point, really?

"Was it related to the...perfection?"

Johnny didn't respond. He just stared at the television with a fixed expression. While he didn't get an answer, at least Johnny hadn't yelled or attacked him for asking yet.

"Did...well, was it a good or bad thing?"

Johnny didn't say anything for a while. When he spoke, he kept his eyes fixed on the screen.

"I don't know."

Asking direct questions seemed to get him as much information as just dodging around them, or at least, it seemed that way now. Edgar looked down and noticed that he wasn't wearing his shoes or socks.

"Did you do this? I mean, fix my shoulder?"

_I'd hesitate to call it fixed._

Johnny nodded.

Edgar stared a little more, wondered if Johnny would turn off the television to pay full attention to him, then took a deep breath.

"Why?"

Another long pause, and in much the same tone before, Johnny said, "I don't know."

_Is this just because he's insane or is he just conflicted about something? I can't even tell..._

"...Are you still going to try? Try to find that perfection with me?"

Johnny leapt to his feet, his hands balled into fists and he shrieked in pure fury, "I don't fucking know, Edgar!"

Edgar instinctually backed out of the room and hid slightly behind the doorway. "I was just asking-"

"I don't fucking know anything anymore!" Johnny pressed his hands to his head, shaking. "I thought I knew what I was doing and then- then I- fuck! FUCK!"

Johnny turned away from Edgar and stalked out of the room into the kitchen. Edgar stayed where he was.

_Well, are you going to follow him?_

_...I'm not sure if I should._

_Or what? He'll kill you?_

_W-_

_You can't die._

_What?_

_Remember? You're a lock now. He can't kill you._

_...What do you mean?_

_Come now Edgar, you haven't forgotten, have you? It wasn't so long ago. Johnny asked you to participate in an experiment, to test whether or not he could actually die, and you-_

_I... _Edgar took hold of the doorway to try and stay upright. His legs were trembling. _The taser..._

_That's right, the taser right to the forehead. To the brain. No one should have survived it. Remember the shotgun, Edgar? Remember being able to see through Johnny's head, the bits of skull and brain?_

_Please..._

_You do remember, I know you do. It still makes you feel sick, but think, Edgar. Think for once. He was shot straight through, right through his skull, and yet he's here, and he's speaking with you. No wound, nothing. Don't you ever wonder how that happened, exactly?_

_I...I was imagining things...wasn't I?_

_Did you imagine the fact that Krik kicked your ass too? The fact you had to get new glasses because of it? Do you remember, Edgar? It happened, and we were there. We saw it happen._

_But..._

_And if this lock system exists, Johnny was a part of it not so long ago, back before you went off to Heaven and I...either way, he's still alive, Edgar, and so are you. Now you've taken his place, and you know what that means?_

Edgar sank down to his knees, unable to stop shivering.

_You can't die, Edgar. You can be injured, like Johnny was, but you won't die. Do you realize what this means? You're immortal now, you're untouchable._

_I..._

_Johnny has no power over you,_ Scriabin whispered. _Johnny can't control you anymore, because he can't kill you. You can escape, Edgar. You can get away. He can't stop you anymore._

_But...he'd find me-_

_And do what? Do what?_

_I...I still got stabbed-_

_You can be hurt but you can't die. Are you willing to sacrifice your freedom over a few flesh wounds? Or is there something else that's keeping you here apart from animal fear?_

_What?_

_Edgar, here. Here's the test, the final test. There's the door._ Edgar looked across the living room at the front door that he had, against all logic, walked through so long ago when he should have died in that machine. _Leave, Edgar. Leave this masochistic, abusive, co-dependent relationship behind, and leave. You can do better than this, you can do better than Johnny. _Scriabin's voice soft, determined. Cajoling. _Prove that you're different, prove you still have a spine, prove that you can stop this spiral that we all can see and take those steps out. Leave and start a real life. Escape the circle, Edgar. All you have to do is walk out that front door._

There was a crash from the kitchen and the sound of swearing. Edgar stood on shaky legs, wishing that he had his glasses.

"Nny, are you alright?"

The question hung in the air for a few minutes, and Edgar thought. Scriabin was silent.

The question came naturally, without reserve, without thought, and the emotion behind it was genuine. Edgar closed his eyes and took a few faltering steps into Johnny's living room.

_It's not that simple._

_You know it is!_ Scriabin hissed urgently. _You know it is, you keep inventing these elaborate reasons, these excuses to keep you here with him instead of facing the pain of doing what you know you have to do! Leave, Edgar! Stop the cycle and leave!_

_I can't._

_Why not?_

Edgar hesitantly looked around the edge of Johnny's kitchen doorway. Johnny was sitting in the midst of a few dented pots and bowls and a collection of snapped plastic sporks, plastic wrappers, and fast food napkins. He was staring at his hands and panting, his eyes narrowed and watering.

_I know for some unbelievably stupid reason you love that man Edgar but you can't throw this away!_ Scriabin's voice was fast and sharp. _You can't throw away this chance to make this stop! You can't shut the door on your chance to break free! You know how bad this is, you know how bad he is for you, you know how this will end and stop, Edgar! Let him go and run!_

_I don't love him._

_Prove it._

Edgar stood in the doorway, unable to think of an answer. He stared at Johnny, who still had yet to notice him.

_Prove you don't, Edgar._ Scriabin's voice was filled with hate.

"Nny?"

Johnny turned and looked at him for a few seconds, then turned back to staring at the floor. Edgar watched him, leaning against the doorframe to keep himself upright.

"What is your perfection?"

Johnny didn't react to the question. Edgar wasn't sure he'd heard him at all.

"What is perfection, with me? What is it you're looking for? What are we working at?"

_Since when were you working at it?_

Johnny didn't move for a long time.

"I used to know."

Edgar thought about that and stayed where he was. Johnny picked up a broken spork, tested the sharp edges against one finger.

"What was it before?"

"It doesn't matter." Johnny pressed the spork hard into his skin. "It's gone now."

"...Are you giving up?"

"I don't know. I can't get what I wanted before." Johnny tossed the spork against the wall. "Everything's changed now. Everything's different."

_Ruined._

_He didn't say that._

"So you've changed your goal?"

"...I shouldn't have a new goal, Edgar. When things change, they end. That's how it's supposed to be. Even before they change, they end. I...I don't know what to do."

"Things have changed, but it's not over, not unless you want it to be."

_You're such a tool._

"Make a new goal and work for that. Things haven't been ruined unless you want them to be ruined."

Johnny made a noise that indicated how little he cared for that particular philosophy.

"What do you want with me now?"

"I don't know if I want anything with you anymore," Johnny said quietly. "You're not who I thought you were."

Edgar lowered his eyes.

"I did lie to you, I admit that."

"And that's that." Johnny sounded strangely detached. "Everything's different. I wanted who I thought you were, not what you are now."

"If that's the case..." Edgar said with some difficulty after a while, "why did you fix my shoulder instead of letting me die?"

"I..." Johnny stared blankly at the wall in front of him. "I don't know. I just..." Johnny pressed one hand to his eye. "Something...I just..."

"You couldn't do it...?"

Johnny turned and looked at him, and Edgar took a step back.

"It...that's what it sounded like you were getting at..."

"I don't know, Edgar." There were tinges of anger, but still Johnny's voice seemed strangely level. "I...I should have been, I should have, I meant to, that's why I did it, and then...when I...saw you, there was something...I just...something said it wasn't..."

"Hope."

"What?"

"You still had hope...remember what I said before? About having faith? That you had faith that we could...achieve what you wanted, even if you didn't recognize it?" Edgar felt dizzy and weak, and it was becoming a struggle to just remain standing. "That must have been it...you still had hope that I could make you happy."

That simplified things too much for Edgar's liking and he wished he could take the words back, but it was too late. Johnny stared at him strangely, and Edgar slumped against the doorframe and let himself fall to his knees. The dizziness slowly eased.

"What would it take for me to make you happy?" Edgar said softly, and he closed his eyes. He could see Jimmy, face eager, asking him for advice on the playground. Jimmy standing against a darkening sky, hovering over him with a knife in hand, Jimmy the slumped and broken heap of a person and he felt sick but more than that he felt an immense sense of loss and sadness. He could still feel the fluid hitting his face, Jimmy's horrified and betrayed expression, hear his screams and see how smoothly Johnny moved, how he never faltered, never questioned, never stopped, never knew that it was wrong.

_Is it even worth it for someone like you...?_

_...Did you really just think that? _Scriabin sounded shocked, and Edgar found he felt the same.

_I didn't...I didn't mean that..._

_You don't sound very confident._

"With everything that's happened...I don't know if I can feel happy again." Johnny leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling. "Everytime I do it's snatched out from under me, ruined somehow."

"Then why am I here? You have to believe that I can do that for you, or else you would have killed me a long time ago."

"That's true..." Johnny looked thoughtful.

_You believe Johnny's life is worth more than other people's._

_What?_

_If you didn't, you wouldn't be sitting here talking to him, enabling him. You'd be trying to stop him from doing this again. Did Jimmy's life mean so little to you?_

_No, it's not like that, I...I tried to stop him-_

_He'll kill again. The blood will be on your hands and it won't be new, Edgar, you've been stained for a long time. You've refused to acknowledge it because it doesn't mesh with your beliefs and your feelings for him. You refuse to take a stand by avoiding my questions, so I am going to state it outright in hopes of getting your legs working and you out of this house. Either you do not tolerate meaningless slaughter of innocents and leave Johnny, or you do tolerate his behavior towards others and stay with him, absolving him of responsibility. Granting him status above other human beings because he is above your judgment. One or the other, Edgar._

_That's not fair, you can't simplify it like that-_

_I just did. Answer me._

"Edgar..."

"What?"

"Why are you here?"

"...What?"

"You could've..." Johnny gestured vaguely. "You could've left while I was in here, or when I wasn't paying attention...why are you still here?"

Edgar blinked several times, trying to think of an answer.

"Well, I'm still wearing your clothes...I'd like my own back, wherever they are." Edgar smiled weakly. Johnny did not return the gesture, and Edgar let his smile fade. "To be honest...I'm not sure myself."

_Bullshit. You know why you're here._

"You don't know?" Johnny raised an eyebrow.

Edgar stared, took some deep breaths and thought of what Scriabin had said, the decision that he had laid at his feet and the implications in its answers. All that had been said and done in his and Johnny's turbulent and unpredictable friendship, frightening and supernatural and beyond the power of prayer to sooth. So many things had happened to him that were unbelievable, unreal, and still, against all odds, he was here. He was still alive, sitting in a kitchen with a sociopath and one arm dead against his side.

The diary entries Johnny had left, the screaming argument when he ran out of the house, the calls on the phone so late at night, that first night when he hadn't hung up and still, still all this time he did not know _why_.

What did it all lead to? What did it all come down to? Why was he here? Why was he still alive, and why was he here?

Edgar closed his eyes, took a deep breath through his nose and released it. When he looked at Johnny, he found him staring with a quizzical expression.

"What is your perfection?"

Johnny tilted his head.

"I told you, I don't know anymore."

"What was it before?"

Johnny kept his head tilted and stared at Edgar, unblinking. Edgar steeled himself and asked the hardest question he'd ever asked in his life.

"Did you want me to love you, and you to love me back?"

Johnny's mouth fell open.

_Holy shit._

Edgar kept his face emotionless as he stared at Johnny, trying to gauge his reaction. Johnny was sputtering, looking everywhere, and his hands were twisting, clawing as he pointed at himself, at Edgar, gestured vaguely in various directions, all while not managing to say a coherent word.

It took almost a minute for Johnny to collect his thoughts enough to think of something to say.

"Edgar, I'm-...I...I can't _believe_-"

"I'm trying to be honest, since you've shown me lying has its consequences." Edgar's voice was steady and calm. "I want to know."

Johnny stared at him with wide eyes, mouth still open, before his eyes slowly narrowed. "I wanted to be _happy_. With _you_."

Edgar closed his eyes and found his muscles tightening prematurely, his good arm lifted slightly to protect his face. Johnny was standing over him in seconds, breathing hard in fury.

"You think that's what this is? What this _was_?" Johnny's voice had hit its high, manic, furious tone and Edgar kept his eyes shut tight, sure that whatever was going to happen next was going to be painful.

_But not lethal._

Johnny's hands grabbed his shirt, just barely managing to get enough fabric in-between thin fingers and Johnny was shaking Edgar as hard as he possibly could, enough to make Edgar's vision black around the edges.

"Of all the things to say- to do to what we had, the one thing in my life that wasn't corrupted, wasn't tainted with all that ridiculous bullshit about true love and deep devotion and all those worthless words to justify our monkey emotions that we can't get rid of! All the trappings of our animal heritage glorified, given unworthy prestige and desirability by changing the name, by making it something different! You think that's what I wanted? You think that's what I wanted with you, some disgusting carnal display of empty lust masquerading as some higher function?!"

"No!" Edgar managed to say. "No, that's not what I meant-"

"How could you- how could you _do this to me_!?" Johnny shrieked in Edgar's face.

"What do you _want_ from me?!" Edgar shouted back as best he could, and this apparently surprised Johnny enough to make the shaking stop. Edgar's breath felt tight and short and his fingers on his left hand tingled unpleasantly, his heartbeat jumping and God was this another anxiety attack, his chest was aching "I want to make you happy but God, God I don't know what you want from me!"

Johnny didn't say anything, his hands still tightly wound in Edgar's shirt.

Edgar let his head fall forward, his voice shaky. "I don't know what you want that will make you happy, I didn't know if that's what you wanted so I asked, that's all...I didn't mean anything by it, I just wanted to know if that's what it was...you never told me, I never knew..."

The image of Jimmy's eye bursting above him, and Edgar shivered violently, wanted to be sick somewhere but tried valiantly to keep his stomach in check. The image repeating and repeating and God when would these flashbacks stop?

_Darling, have you ever heard of PTSD?_

"You didn't know?" Johnny's voice had changed without warning again, this time mildly curious. "How could you not know?"

Edgar took in a few gasping breaths while he had the chance. "You never told me..."

There was a second's pause as Johnny considered this.

"But how could you not know?"

_He doesn't understand the concept of other people, that other people don't feel or know the same things he does. He doesn't understand people as anything other than things, concepts, therefore it would not occur to him that you wouldn't know about the perfection that dominates his fractured reality. You're such an important part of his reality that the thought you don't know why would never occur to him. You know why, Edgar? Because he's crazy. He is absolutely, completely insane, and you know what?_

_Stop, please, I'm sick already..._

_You know what, Edgar? You will never redeem him. You will never fix him because what's wrong with Johnny is not something that can ever be fixed._

_That's why you have to leave, Edgar, you have to stop this. You think you can save him, fix him, but you can't. There is nothing to be done for him, Edgar, he is gone beyond repair, and you'll never be able to interact with him like you would a normal human being._

_There has to be hope..._

_No, there doesn't._

Edgar's breath hitched in his throat and his face felt warm, his eyes watering.

_There has to be._

Quiet response. _No, there doesn't._

Edgar opened his eyes, to try and see what Johnny was thinking or doing and he found him staring at his face. Edgar couldn't quite tell what he was focusing on for a few seconds, then Johnny raised a hand and glanced his fingertips across his cheekbone, across the near-deadened skin that marked the beginning of the end.

"They're still here..." Johnny said.

"They'll always be there." Edgar tried to keep his voice from breaking. "I think they're permanent. If not before, definitely now because I keep scratching at them." Talking to try and keep his mind off the fact he wanted to cry. He could _not_ do that, it was simply not an option.

"And I did that..."

"Yes...back when we first met...I don't know why."

"I don't remember myself." Johnny smiled, his violent mood having either passed or for the moment temporarily forgotten. The smile faded slowly as Johnny kept staring. "From the beginning, I was already making mistakes..."

"You didn't want to do them?"

"...I'm not sure." Johnny looked thoughtful. "I'm sure I had a reason at the time, but I don't remember it now. But hurting you...I don't think that's what I wanted to do. Or maybe I did...all of it is so blurry. It all fades and mixes together."

"They're still there." Edgar wasn't sure what Johnny was talking about exactly, but had to keep in the conversation. "I'm still here."

"Yes, that's right. You've stayed. Through everything..." Johnny let go of him, pulled back to sit on his heels. "You've been here through almost everything I can remember now...you haven't left. Maybe that's why you're still here, you're supposed to be here."

"How am I supposed to be here?"

"But you're not who you were before..." Johnny ignored the question. "You're not the Edgar I thought I knew."

"Why?"

Johnny's eyes narrowed. "The Edgar I know isn't two people."

Edgar shut his eyes and lowered his head, felt his chest tighten uncomfortably and he tried to keep his breathing regular. "The Edgar I knew wasn't either."

_Don't don't don't don't don't don't don't don't_

He took a deep breath, noticed his nose was running and sniffed. "I didn't want it to happen this way. This isn't who I wanted to be. This isn't what I wanted to happen. This isn't how I thought my life would turn out." He took another deep breath and somewhere along the way it turned into a sob, and the shame and self-disgust associated with it made Edgar struggle to stand up and get away. "I didn't want this to happen fuck I've- excuse me-"

Edgar stumbled up onto his feet and made his way through Johnny's living room with no set goal in mind except someplace where no one could see him. His shoulder throbbed painfully, his right hand hanging leaden and heavy and he couldn't believe this, he couldn't believe this he was crying, of all the stupid, worthless, pointless, self-indulgent things to do he was crying, in front of Nny no less God how could he let himself be this weak

His words kept running through his head, more agonized and sharp on each repetition and he ran the events of his life through his head, what had led him here to this place and this time in this condition and God, this wasn't what he wanted to be, this wasn't who he wanted to be with, this wasn't who he was supposed to be or what he was doing, what had happened dear God _what had happened_

_What do you want for this, Edgar? What is this pathetic display for? Do you want me to feel sorry for you, for your decisions? Do you think your tears justify the mess you've made out of your own life, absolve you of the mistakes you made that got you here?_

_No, no, that's not why-_

_That's what you want from this, Edgar. These tears are just a way of asking for pity you don't deserve, lamenting your bad decisions that you never have and still will not take responsibility for. You are here because in some way you wanted to be here, not because the hand of God put you here._

"That's not true!" Edgar gasped through his tears, still stumbling blindly through Johnny's house. "That's not true, it's not, this isn't my fault-"

_How can you even say that?! How can you say it isn't your choice to be here?_

"I didn't ask Johnny to abduct me!" Edgar screamed and fell forward, unable to force his shivering legs to move any further, and he pressed his one functioning hand to his head.

_You didn't hang up when he called!_ Scriabin screamed back. _You never hung up, Edgar, and your good intentions have doomed us both!_

"God, _what do you want from me_?! What do I have to _do_ to make you stop?!" Edgar's voice was hoarse and scratchy and he shuddered violently, not sure if the fact that his stomach was empty would stop him from being sick again. He could feel his voice rebound off the wood floor, his own breath against his face.

_I want your fucking life that you're too stupid to appreciate and protect! And if you won't give that to me no matter how much I deserve it, then I want to share a life with you that isn't a fucking joke!_

His jaw ached, his teeth clenched tight together. "How do you know you could do better?"

_Shit, Edgar, how could I do worse?!_

Edgar's body convulsed with the power of his next sob, everything that had happened all coming at him at once, memories he had tried to control by focusing on them one at a time. Jimmy's death, Scriabin's dual possessions, the knife through his shoulder, Jimmy's eager face at the playground, all of Scriabin's lies and manipulation, the promise of some darker purpose in his never-ending words and none of it was real, all of it was just to use him, all of it just to use him for his own ends, everyone just using him constantly using him and it would never stop because Scriabin would never leave and Johnny would never let him live and everything kept spiralling out of control and why hadn't he hung up so long ago, why hadn't he stopped this when he still had a chance

"Edgar?"

Edgar felt a shiver of fear, an attempt to keep himself curled in a tighter ball and he realized it wasn't Scriabin's voice.

"Edgar, I'm..."

"God, Nny, I can't...please, just..." Edgar struggled to speak normally, to control his breathing and stop the stinging in his eyes. He wanted to stand and move away, hide somewhere but his legs still refused to move. "I don't know what to say, I don't know what you want."

"This is why I wanted to stop this," Johnny said quietly, and he heard him sit down some distance away. "I wanted to stop this from happening, the decay."

"Why haven't you? Why did you keep calling me, why did you keep reaching out to me?"

"I always felt like...you could do more. You made me feel...normal sometimes, and I liked that, but I always wondered if...you could do more. I wanted to know, I wanted to be happy with you, but...it never happened."

His breathing was slowing gradually, and Edgar felt some semblance of self-control coming back. "If I hadn't called you...set off that trap, if I hadn't come to see if I could save you..."

"Save me..." Johnny laughed once. "You think you can save me?"

Edgar was quiet for a few seconds. He kept his eyes closed.

"No."

"So why did you stay with me? Why didn't you hang up when I called you? You had a reason to stay in contact with me. If you didn't think you could save me, then what?"

"I don't know," Edgar said softly. "I just...I don't know."

"Did you know that...being around me was doing...this to you?"

Edgar thought of the action figure. "No, not for a long time. I...believed his lies, and I never thought...I didn't think it would go this far."

"So what do you think we should do, Edgar?" Johnny asked in a perfectly normal tone of voice. "Do you think there's a reasonable chance that things can improve from here on, or do you think that if we stay together, we'll just make things worse for both of us?"

"I don't know."

"Did you know? Once?"

An odd question, but now that Edgar thought about it... "Yeah, I did."

"But not anymore."

"I don't know what Scriabin wants, I don't know who or what he is. I don't know how to make him stop, how to make this stop. I don't know how to help you or make you happy when you can't trust me, when I disgust you because I lied. I don't know what I can do for you or for myself anymore. I've tried as hard as I could and now I don't know if I can try anymore."

There was silence, and Edgar sniffed and kept his breathing calm. Forcing the emotions back as best he could.

"It wasn't your fault that this happened...but you should have told me."

"You would've killed me for it."

"Yeah, but at least it wouldn't have come to this."

Edgar shuddered at the ease that Johnny spoke of his death. Still, after all this time, the idea of killing him didn't bother him in the least. No matter how important he was, he'd never be important enough to be kept alive, to have a life of any value other than what impact it had on Johnny's. Scriabin was right, there was no world outside of Johnny and to him, Edgar had no existence outside of that shared with him, and would not have one afterwards if Johnny had anything to do with it. Still, in the end, for his benefit, for his happiness, his perfection and then his death, so easy and without any thought, any remorse. It wouldn't bother him that he'd be dead, and how could he care, believe that they had any kind of friendship, relationship when his life meant so little to him?

But...

"Why am I still alive?"

"I...I don't know."

_You two are such a matching pair._

"Do you want us to go our separate ways, Edgar?"

Edgar was silent.

_Think about it, Edgar. Think about a life without him. No fear, no paranoia, no constant questioning, no late nights spent in prayer for a soul way past redemption. No more moral quandaries, no more emotional abuse, no more unpredictable mood swings. No more constantly imminent death. Your life could be normal again._

_My life will never be normal again._

_It could-_

_It'll never be normal again because you'll still be there._ Edgar tensed. _You'll always be there, and you'll never let the pain stop._

Scriabin was silent for a moment, then his voice was came in a whisper, his tone strangely calm. _A long-term relationship with me doesn't end in death._

_Neither does one with Nny. Not anymore. You said so yourself._

_You can't honestly be thinking about staying with him, can you? You never did answer my earlier question. How can you reconcile Johnny with your beliefs, Edgar? Could you live with the fact that he kills people? That people die through your inaction? How much do other people matter to you, really?_

"Nny..."

"Hmm?"

"Do you think you'll ever...stop killing people?"

Johnny didn't say anything for a while.

"I don't think people will ever stop being unpleasant."

That was vague.

"If I wanted to stay with you...would you stay too?"

"...I don't know anymore. I don't know you anymore."

_He never knew you to begin with._

"I...I can't, I can't...killing other people, it's...I can't understand, I can't...it's not something I can ever live with. I can't...if you keep killing people, it's..."

"If that's the case, why have you stayed with me for so long? I haven't stopped since I've known you. Has it always bothered you?"

"Yes. And...I'm not sure. There were always...reasons that I couldn't-...I didn't want to leave."

_Because you might kill me._

_It's funny how you didn't speak up, didn't do anything to stop him when it was your life on the line. Is that the answer to my question?_

_No, no-_

_I think it is._

"Hmm."

There was a short pause. Edgar tried to think of something to say to both Scriabin and Johnny, and could only find something for one.

"Nny, if we reach that perfection, if we reach some kind of new perfection...would you still kill me?"

"Of course." Johnny said this as if it was the most obvious answer in the world.

_What would he say if he knew he couldn't? That he'd be stuck with you and your mediocrity forever? You should tell him._

_I can't. I don't know what that would do to him._

_Why do you care?_

Another question he couldn't answer, and he found that Scriabin's quiet disappointment in his lack of response stung more than his typical smugness.

"...I heard you talking to him," Johnny said idly after another pause. Edgar jerked.

"What?"

"Just now...I heard you screaming at him. Scriabin." Edgar felt another distinct shudder at Johnny saying Scriabin's name. "I heard you...what was he saying?"

The thought, the possibility of talking to Johnny about what Scriabin said had never seriously occurred to Edgar.

"That this was my fault." Edgar felt too tired and weak to think of some kind of lie, some way to smooth it out. "All of this...I'm here because I chose to be here, so it's my responsibility..."

"All of it?"

"Yeah..."

Johnny made a thoughtful humming sound. "That's not entirely true. What we do is usually my idea, or what happens is usually because of me. I called you first, didn't I?"

"I didn't hang up."

"That's true..." Johnny thought for a few seconds. "I suppose we're both responsible to an extent. That's not how he makes it sound, is it?"

"No."

"Does he do this all the time?"

"Pretty much."

"Is it usually that bad?"

"Sometimes." The answers came quickly and without thought.

"Do you remember...was that seizure I saw you go through, was that him? Was that his fault?"

"I...I think it was."

His shoulder hurt, his eyes hurt, his stomach gurgled unhappily. Miserable again, and how often had he felt like this in recent memory?

_How much of it has been Johnny's fault?_

"I don't think it will stop, Edgar. Mine were taken away from me, and it only got quiet after I died...but that's not the end of it, I know it. It never stops."

"I want it to stop..."

"It won't. No matter what you do, it'll never stop. Everything you try will just give it more fuel against you, all the rage just against a brick wall. It never stops." Johnny's voice sounded distant.

"I don't want to live like this." Edgar's voice shook, and he curled himself tighter. Johnny didn't say anything for a few moments.

"I should have killed you."

He knew logically that the comment wasn't supposed to hurt, wasn't supposed to have the undercurrent of disappointment that stung so badly, but it did. Without thinking about it, he responded with the first thing he could think of.

"I should have hung up."

Silence on all fronts that went on long enough so that Edgar knew he'd made a mistake, and he heard Johnny get up and walk away.

_Did you mean that?_ Scriabin sounded honestly amazed.

_...Maybe I did._


	25. Real

Edgar was silent for a long time after that, and so was Scriabin. There was little noise at all, except the faint sound of the television from somewhere nearby. He couldn't hear Johnny, but he was fairly sure that he wouldn't want to talk to him right now anyway.

Edgar didn't know what to say, and Scriabin was either doing something or felt likewise, so Edgar stayed curled on his side on the floor, calming his breathing and trying to think about anything other than the numerous crises that faced him at current.

Eventually, Edgar found himself again falling asleep, his exhausted body and mind giving in. He didn't know for how long, and he couldn't recall anything from his dreams except a sense of danger, unhappiness, and conflict. Nightmares.

He almost woke up several times as his body began to ache from the hard floor, but he couldn't find the energy or motivation to get up and move somewhere else, so he stayed where he was. He flitted in and out of consciousness until the ache in his stomach became too much and, after trying to fall back asleep for some time without success, he decided he had to eat something.

It took effort to get his body to move at all, his right shoulder still throbbed painfully and his neck and back were sore. His arms shook and almost refused to follow his directions, but somehow he managed to get up. He felt something slide off his shoulders, and a sudden lack of heat. A blanket?

He turned and looked. His blanket again. Johnny. Maybe Johnny had forgiven him for his comment...or just didn't want to see him cold.

_I don't even know how he feels about me now..._ Edgar thought to himself, struggling to bring words out of his mind's sleepy haze. _I don't think saying I wish we never became friends was a good idea...but I guess if he got me this blanket he's not holding it against me. But who knows? This is Nny we're talking about...maybe he hates and likes me at the same time, I don't know..._

His mental voice sounded thick and slow, and strangely unfamiliar...no, that wasn't right. It sounded familiar, but it didn't sound...accurate. There was something off, something strange, but he was too tired and hungry to think about it. He had to find something to eat...his stomach was cramping and it felt like it was tightening in on itself.

_Where can I find something to eat?_

Edgar forced himself to his feet, his head swimming, and tried to navigate the house to find the kitchen. This took him longer than he expected, since he hadn't spent a great deal of time in Johnny's house and hadn't exactly acquainted himself with the layout. He had to stop every few feet to regain his breath, and at some points he had to sit to make sure he wouldn't become completely dizzy and pass out, or just get sick again. He'd thrown up enough in recent memory for his tastes, and he was sure that throwing up any more would not do him any good.

Made his way through the house, vision blurry and thoughts still muddled, his mind in the comfortable numb zone of someone just waking up, when most worries had yet to be consciously recognized and all that mattered were his physical needs. That was all he could focus on now, that was all he had the energy to focus on.

There, he found the kitchen. He sat at the table for a few minutes to catch his breath and stop the dizziness, then went to the fridge and opened it. There was nothing inside, which didn't exactly surprise him. He knelt down, his legs still too weak to keep him standing for long, and looked in the drawers, hoping he'd get lucky and find something.

There, at the bottom of the crisper drawer. A plastic bag of mini-carrots, dry and old. Under other circumstances Edgar wouldn't have even considered it, but as it was he pulled the bag open and immediately began eating. It was food, that was all that mattered. The carrots, probably remnants from some shopping trip that Johnny had completely forgotten God knows how long ago, had an unpleasant texture and taste, but they slowly eased the cramps away and helped thought return. It was possible that the carrots would make him sick, or even give him food poisoning given his current luck, but at the moment Edgar just had to eat and he had to eat now.

He finished the bag off in silence, his eyes closed as he leaned against the closed fridge and focused on chewing and swallowing. He was still hungry when he was done, but at least it wasn't quite as bad.

_Think Nny will like the fact you ate his carrots?_ Scriabin said, the first thing in what felt like hours, and he sounded almost tentative.

_At this point I don't even care._ Edgar kept his eyes closed as he leaned against the fridge door.

_Is that so?_

Edgar didn't think that needed a response, so he again focused on his breathing, wondering if there was anything else he'd missed and if he could find the energy to get up and walk somewhere else without collapsing.

_So, where to begin?_

Edgar paused to think about that. Scriabin probably hadn't intended for his question to be anything more than a lead-up to whatever insult he had planned next, but Edgar found that it was a valid question. Where to begin? Of all the problems facing him now...where should he begin?

Perhaps it was his exhaustion or simply his body giving up after running on pure adrenaline for so long, but he found he felt almost nothing as he sat on the floor, empty bag of carrots on his lap. It was a deep, strong sense of apathy, of quiet acceptance of the situation. He just wanted to consider what he had to do, and he was fairly sure that given how little he felt, he didn't think he'd lapse into emotional hysteria as he'd had a tendency to do lately. He'd been too emotional lately in general.

Drained. Emotionally drained, completely, and Edgar recalled his words to Johnny some time ago. Taken everything he had, and now he had nothing. Edgar found the words particularly apt concerning his current mood. He felt empty, hollow, exhausted. Not a bad time to think, at least, given there was no action immediately required.

_Where to begin...I should make a list._

_A list? _Scriabin said with disbelief. _You want to make a list? How pedantic are you?_

_Nothing wrong with a list. _Edgar couldn't muster up any emotion to even feel annoyed at Scriabin at this point. _Makes things easier to sort through. One, I can't die._

_...You actually want to talk about this?_ Scriabin now sounded confused.

Edgar ignored him. _Nny's not going to like that...not sure how he'll react, but I'll tell him eventually. He might have guessed from his own experience with the lock system by now, but probably not. He seemed fairly confident that he'd kill me when I asked him about it before. I have to tell him so he can adjust his plans accordingly. I'll take care of that the next time I see him. Two, Scriabin can and will possess me from now on...he's way more powerful than I thought he was._

_What the f- I'm right here!_ Scriabin sounded outraged. _Don't you ignore me! I can hear everything you're doing, all your thoughts, you can't pretend I'm not here-_

_He could possibly be working against me with the system, to weaken me for the collapse. I didn't think he was before but given that he lied about everything, it seems likely enough now. It could have usurped him...or maybe that was his goal all along, to weaken me for this. I'll have to tell Devi about that...kind of changes things._

_Edgar, I swear to god, if you don't start talking to me instead of at me I am going to-_

_Three, Nny doesn't trust me anymore since I lied, and the whole perfection thing is probably a bust...since he doesn't think it's possible anymore, and I think his feelings for me now are probably ambivalent at best. Not to mention that I can't in good conscience stay with him if he's killing people...and he says he won't stop. I'm not going to compromise my own moral values for a relationship he already thinks has failed..._

Scriabin didn't say anything, most likely shocked into silence at what Edgar was saying. Despite the fact that the words, the concept should have been emotionally charged with _something_ at the least, Edgar felt nothing. Simply words and concepts and facts, being stated and sorted. Just sitting and thinking and nothing, nothing was coming through, it was all gone, all spent.

_On the other hand, I don't know if Nny really wants to get rid of me...he kept me alive, after all, got me that blanket, fixed my shoulder, changed my clothes...he cares about me somewhere, so I don't know if he could drop me completely. I'm not sure what he wants from me now, but given that he's insane, I probably won't get anywhere hypothesizing about him._

_Edgar, are you really going to leave? After all this time, have you finally realized, understood what I've been telling you about him, are you actually going to stop this before it goes any further?_

_I've got too many responsibilities and promises to just leave him. _He heard Scriabin's disappointed sigh._ He's my friend and I do care about him...it wouldn't be right to just abandon him like that, but I can't stay with him if he...I've got to make it more clear how I feel, what I want him to do. Things I want to change...got to set out ideas, compromises, see if we both can't achieve something if we talk things through first..._

_This...sounds familiar..._ Scriabin's tone matched Edgar's, somewhat distant and almost distracted.

_Again, I can do that when I meet him again. Hopefully we can discuss the future and what we want, what we can do. Maybe come to a compromise, or take a break for a while, something. I don't think this is the end or we'll drop each other completely...but things have changed, and we both have to adapt._

_Something...far away..._

_Four...I'm probably going to die eventually because of the system, not Nny. Collapse, whatever that is. Don't know how, but I'm pretty sure it'll happen._

_Hey, I- I told you that I was going to find a way around that, I won't let that happen-_

_If there's nothing to be done about that, then the best thing to do would be to make my peace before I go._ Edgar scratched his chest, eyes still closed. His fingers moved slowly, hesitantly, and he still felt vaguely sick. Hungry, but he'd find nothing else here. When he found the strength... _I've been out of touch with my Lord for a while...I should renew my faith while I have my chance on earth so I can die with no regrets._

_We're not going to die, Edgar!_ Scriabin's voice had a strained edge to it. _I told you, I won't let us die! I'm...I'm working on a way around it, finding a way to protect you-..._

_If I'm going to lose my mind soon, gradually, I should warn Devi and Nny before it happens...Todd too, so they know what to expect. Or at least, warn them that I might change before I go. I need to make some preparations..._

_We aren't going to die-_

_Five, I need to find my glasses...and my clothes. I need to get home, take a shower, eat something, then go to sleep in a real bed. When I'm more awake I can go over things in more detail, but as it is I need to take care of myself before I can really take care of anyone else..._

_Stop ignoring me! I'm trying to tell you, you just won't trust me and that's why-_

_Take care of the simpler things first-_

_Edgar, what's wrong with you?_ He hadn't heard him this irritated in a while.

_What do you mean?_

_You're acting like some kind of carrot-eating zombie. The carrots weren't that bad, were they? Are you just in that half-asleep state like before? What is with you?_

_You sound kind of frightened._

_I am not, that's ridiculous. This is just strange for you. Need I remind you that ...however many hours ago you were basically having a conniption over the hand that life dealt you?_

Edgar would have shrugged, but didn't feel the urge to really move.

_You can't scream and cry all the time. It doesn't accomplish anything. You just have to calm down and think things through._

_I can understand you being drained, given all that you've been through, but this doesn't seem right, there's something...strange about this. I don't like this. And since when have you ever ignored me like that?_

_It's true that this situation is not good...I have a lot of difficult decisions to make, and my current situation is less than ideal. However, I do have to take some responsibility...I did make decisions that contributed to me being here, but at no point did I ever think this would happen. I didn't decide to end up here, but I did make mistakes. We all do. There's no point in blaming myself for everything, and it's no good pretending that I'm innocent in all of this either...at this point, the healthiest option is to just make plans and do what I can to fix it._

_I'm going to assume you're talking to me..._

_I'll take responsibility for what I can and make plans to fix what I can. I'll change my path the best I'm able, or at least accept the path I'm on with grace. It's time for control, for logic again. I've been too emotional recently...probably because of the waste lock system filtering all that emotion through me. Scriabin warned me about something like that, if I remember right. Regardless, the best way to handle this situation, and future ones, is to keep a calm head and keep in mind what has to be done..._

_I don't like this..._ Scriabin mumbled. _This doesn't...feel right. There's something familiar about it, but it's...not complete, not all the way through...I'm not sure..._

_Six, you...you can possess me now._

Scriabin was silent.

_This is another factor to take into consideration..._ Edgar felt another hunger pang, and he tried to force himself to move but found his body wouldn't respond. _It'll probably happen again in the future, won't it? From what I can remember, you seem to be able to do it when you're extremely angry...I don't think you can do it whenever you want, can you? At least, not yet..._

_...Why aren't you freaking out about this?_ Scriabin sounded confused. _I'd at least expect a few insults or epithets from you about something like this._

_I think I got them all out earlier. At least, for now. I'm just...I'm just trying to think._ Edgar finally got his arm to move, and he pushed himself off the floor and leaned heavily on one of the counters. He looked up at one of the cabinets above the sink. _I can get angry about the reality later. Did you really lie to me about it so you could do it again?_

He felt something not his...a tinge of something...wariness, perhaps. _That's what I said._

_That means nothing, really, but I'm going to assume you're telling the truth because that sounds like something you would do._ Edgar opened the cabinet. Empty bags and debris, nothing useful. He closed it and moved to the next. _Taking my body gets you one step closer to having your own, doesn't it?_

Again, wariness and confusion from Scriabin, but no response.

_It doesn't matter if you confirm or deny it, I'm just theorizing. I don't really care either way now..._ Edgar opened another cabinet and found a box of cookies that looked like it might have something in it. He pulled it down, then slumped down to the floor, his legs again too weak and shivery to hold him up. _If you can't possess me at will just yet, then all I have to do is not provoke you. You're probably gaining power all the time though, maybe from the lock system, so even that won't be enough to protect me..._

_I'm not a part of that-_

_I don't know that for sure._ Edgar looked in the box. Crumbs. Some of them looked big enough to be something at least, and Edgar licked a fingertip and tried to pick up a few. _You could be lying to me. Either way...I'll have to get used to that, or the fact you'll be able to do that. I black out when it happens...but I come back pretty suddenly, from what I can remember. You don't seem to expect me coming back when I do...I guess it's a drain on you to take me over like that and eventually you let me back from wherever you put me._

Small pulses of confusion from Scriabin. _Where I put you..._

_You're too powerful..._ Edgar got a few crumbs stuck to his finger and licked them off. Not much. He tried to dump the box out into his hand and got more. _That was my mistake, I shouldn't have let that happen. I shouldn't have believed you when you manipulated me to further your own growth...all those lies you told me to get me on your side...that was my fault, for believing you. I should have known better._ He downed the handful of crumbs. There was a faint tinge of chocolate...not a lot. _It's too late now though, so we're just going to have to learn how to tolerate each other_.

_...Tolerate you?_

_Neither of us is leaving this body, I don't think._ Still not enough. Edgar dropped the box on the floor and again tried to muster the energy to move. _I have no intention of doing so, and I know now that you don't either. We need to reach a compromise._

_Are you saying that you're willing to share this body with me? Not think of me as a parasite?_

_You are a parasite...we both know that._ He felt Scriabin recoil with a tinge of anger, disappointment, but it wasn't that strong. _The fact is I can't get rid of you. You can't leave on your own. I can get angry about the fact you exist all I want...I can try and force you out or yell at you or fight with you, but it won't get rid of you. You're too deep in me now...I can't get rid of you, so fighting against you seems...pointless at the moment._

_...You'd never willingly accept me here._

_Perhaps not, but why not make the effort? At least I'm considering it._ Edgar again managed to get up and resumed searching through the cabinets. _If I was more awake or less tired, maybe I wouldn't be so accepting of it, but at the moment...what else can I do? I can either fight you pointlessly or just accept the fact you're there. Denying you exist won't make you go away. I can't force you out of my mind...my main problem isn't that you exist, it's that I don't know if you want to hurt me or help me._

_I want to help you-_

_That would have had a lot more weight if you hadn't lied to me about everything._ Another empty cabinet. _Particularly about something as malevolent as forcibly taking control of my body to try and rile Nny up. I don't trust you, and if you're trying to hurt me, I can't trust you anymore. I can accept that you exist, not fight against your presence, but I don't have to trust you and I don't have to like you._

Still confused. _I don't have to like you either._

_I don't expect you to, not after everything that's happened._ How could Johnny have so little food in his house? A bag of flour, but Edgar wasn't that desperate just yet. _I don't think you've ever liked me, have you?_

_...It depends on the situation._

_Ah, when I was doing what you wanted. That makes sense. Your love is very conditional...thinking about it, that only seems natural._ Edgar stared at the bag of flour and for a moment, a brief moment, almost considered it. Nah. He closed the cabinet and his stomach gave another sharp twist. He had to find something. _What would you gain from loving me that you couldn't gain from hating me? And why pretend to love something you hate? When was the last time you ever said you loved me, anyway? Or...well no, you've never done that, but did something similar...the dream, wasn't it? That fantasy of ours┘_

_...I've done things..._

_Supposedly protected me, right? I remember when you fought off something...or at least, made it look like you did._ Another empty cabinet. His legs were shaking again...he was going to have to sit down soon. _If it was a lie to gain my sympathy, it was very well done...I did care for you, then. I felt responsible. But who's to say it was real?_

_You don't believe me? Believe in that anymore? Don't you remember what being a lock entails? The flow of negative emotion? How can you deny the possibility that something came into your mind via that passage?_

_I'm not saying it's not possible._ And nothing. Edgar sat down and rested his head on his knees, feeling almost sick. _I'm just not sure that's what happened that time._

_You saw what it did to me, how can you say I faked that?_ Scriabin had a touch of indignation in his voice, of anger. His emotions felt clear and easy to read to Edgar, who had yet to really feel any of his own during the conversation.

_I believed you when you said you didn't know what happened when you possessed me that first time. You were quite convincing...sounded confused, said that you wanted to know what happened just like I did. How far would you go to propagate one of your lies? I don't know. I can't say for sure anymore. Like I said before, I can't trust you. You lied to me about something incredibly major and life-changing...it throws all your past actions into an unflattering light. I might have believed you then, but knowing what I do now...I don't know if I believe anything you ever said or did._

_And what do you want me to say?_ Familiar spite beginning to edge its way in. _Do you want me to apologize? Promise I'll never do it again? Would you have me kneel in front of you in penitent supplication, like you will in front of your God for forgiveness you don't deserve? Please._

_That's more like the Scriabin I know. _Edgar kept his eyes closed, Scriabin's words passing over him without a reaction. _You sound more like yourself now._

A bright snap of surprise which was quickly muffled. _You still don't sound like yourself just yet. What's with you? I've never seen you act this way before...it's unnatural._

_It's old, that's what it is. Look back and you'll find it, I'm sure. Look at a crisis with a clear eye, and the solution will become obvious...I'm not sure where I heard that. As it is...if you are trying to hurt me, I'll have to fight you or protect myself, at least until we both die or perhaps you take me over for the last time._

_I'm not trying to hurt you, you moron._ Scriabin's voice still didn't sound as angry as it should have. _I've been trying to protect you, that's all I've ever tried to do. From Nny, from the system, from everything that would gladly rape your mind and make it its bitch, I've stood in its way._

_That sounds very noble. Not at all like you, though. Do you think I'd believe that?_

Scriabin paused for words. _The truth is still the truth, whether or not you believe in it._

_I simply cannot run the risk of being hurt by you again. Do you understand? You've done it to me too many times, trying to manipulate me to gain power. I can't allow that to continue. I'm willing to coexist, but I cannot trust you again. It would be a stupid thing to do, given your track record._

_What if you didn't have a choice?_

Edgar raised his head, then looked over at the box of cookies.

_Is that a threat?_

_What if it was?_

_You're so cute when you redirect._ Edgar almost smiled at Scriabin's shocked sputtering. He reached out and picked up the box again, hoping that maybe he'd missed a cookie or something through some miracle. _If it's a threat, then...well, I'm not sure what you mean by that to begin with. How could I not have a choice in trusting you?_

_If your life was at stake._

_How could you save me, if I was in danger? Would you possess me again?_

_Not that kind of danger._

_How do I know that there's really a threat at all?_

_It exists, whether you believe it does or not. When it comes, you'll have to trust me. You won't have a choice._

_I don't think I'll ever trust you again._

_...You will if you have to._

_Or do you mean, I will if you make me?_

Edgar fished around in the empty box, still no cookies no matter how hard he searched. Figures. God, his stomach hurt and he felt lightheaded. He wanted something substantial to eat, not just half a bag of carrots and some cookie crumbs. He'd have to get out of here and find something...

_Did you mean what you said back there?_

_What?_ Scriabin again sounded as if he'd been caught off-guard. He was probably readying a retort to Edgar's previous comment.

_About how I was just your puppet. That you were my god and all that. You remember? Is that how you'll make me trust you?_

Scriabin didn't say anything, and Edgar tried to find his emotions somewhere, but could only catch brief tinges that he couldn't easily associate to any one feeling. Scriabin could have been trying to hide from him, or he just...didn't care enough to really try. Either seemed likely...Edgar still felt nearly nothing except a desire to eat and sleep.

"What are you doing?"

Edgar looked up slowly and saw Johnny standing in the doorway. He was staring at Edgar with what he guessed was confusion, given the distance and Edgar's lack of glasses.

He had the time to think of an excuse, as Johnny just kept staring at him, but not the motivation. Or perhaps even the ability at the moment. Edgar took his hand out of the box slowly.

"I was hungry."

Johnny didn't respond, so Edgar put the box to one side. It was empty anyway.

"Oh."

Edgar leaned his head back against the cabinet and looked at Johnny, his eyes tired and sore.

"I want to talk to you about some things, but I'd really like to eat something first. I haven't eaten in..." How long had it been? "A long time."

"...Okay." Johnny sounded slightly disconcerted by Edgar's statement and shifted uncomfortably. "I have some things I want to tell you, too."

"As it is...I can't really stand up very easily on my own right now. I don't suppose you'd like to give me a hand?"

Johnny kept staring at him for a few more seconds, shifting from foot to foot and he eventually took a step towards him.

"...Okay. What's wrong with you anyway?"

"I'm just exhausted." Edgar reached out his hand for Johnny's without thinking about it, any ramifications in the gesture totally lost. "I'm starving and I've been running on adrenaline for too long. My body's finally decided it's had enough." He tried to smile because he felt like he should.

Johnny hesitated in front of him, and Edgar was able to make out a vaguely disbelieving, almost dismayed look on his face.

"I guess that makes sense, with what's happened around here lately." Johnny reluctantly extended a hand towards Edgar, who took it quickly. Johnny's hand felt cold and skeletal in his grip, and Edgar tugged on it without thinking, nearly sending Johnny off-balance. Earlier this would have terrified him, but instead Edgar just waited for Johnny to readjust himself before pulling on his hand again. This time, Johnny hauled him up without too much trouble.

"There, that's better. My legs feel like Jell-O." Edgar found his balance, waited for the head rush to fade and his vision to return, then put an arm around Johnny's shoulders to keep himself up. He felt Johnny shudder underneath his arm.

"Sorry, I know you don't like being touched. Is this okay?"

Johnny made a displeased sound, but didn't move Edgar away. "Yeah, I can handle it. What do you want?"

"To eat? I don't know...anything sounds good right now. I didn't see anything in your house." Johnny's support made him feel ten times more grounded, and this time Edgar at least felt he could stand for at least fifteen minutes without getting sick.

"We could get some chips at the 24-7."

"...I was thinking of something a little more solid."

Johnny made an annoyed noise.

"Then what?"

Edgar tried to think of something, and the first thing that came to mind was, "Do you know if there's a place around here that sells a good sub?"

"A sub?" Johnny stared at him as best he could. "...I never took you for a sub guy, Edgar."

Hearing his name almost roused up some emotion in him, but not quite. "How about Torgo's? Is there one nearby?"

"...I think so, but I've never been there."

"It's good, you should try it."

The two of them made their way awkwardly to Johnny's car, footsteps mismatching and jostling against the other, and Edgar was reminded of when he and Johnny had shared that blanket beneath the rain. They didn't quite match, and supporting someone like this or sharing an umbrella was not as easy as the movies made it seem. He stepped on Johnny's toes more than once, and when Johnny returned the favor, Edgar remembered that he wasn't wearing any shoes.

"Are you going to order?"

"Yeah, if you're like this."

"Just checking..."

"Edgar..." Johnny opened the car door for him. "Did you mean what you said? About wishing you hung up?"

Edgar sat down and buckled his seat belt, leaning back against the seat's cushions with a sigh. This felt worlds more comfortable than the floor. "At the time, I think I did."

Johnny circled around and got in, still pinning Edgar down with his stare. "Do you now?"

"Hmm...a little." Johnny made something of a surprised sound at the statement. "There are things I regret doing, or being a part of...but there are things I'm glad I experienced too." Although at the moment, he couldn't think of any.

"What about Scriabin? Are you glad for him?"

Scriabin's name woke something up, but he wasn't sure what it was, and just as swiftly it died down again.

"It depends on how he's treating me."

Johnny was silent for a while, and he stared at his hands on the steering wheel.

"I didn't mean to do this to you. This is exactly what I was trying to avoid."

"Yes, you said that in the hallway. It's not your fault."

"It IS my fault, Edgar!" Johnny's voice suddenly rose and Edgar winced, a headache flaring up at the sudden volume. "It's because of me you've got something in your head! It's because of me you're a lock now! This is my fault! This is exactly what-"

"Did you think this would happen?"

Johnny stopped, surprised at being interrupted, and blinked a few times.

"No, if I did I wouldn't have-"

"Then it's not your fault." Edgar closed his eyes, fairly sure that he could fall asleep in the car seat with no trouble if he tried. "You didn't try to do those things to me, they were unfortunate side-effects of being friends with you. I didn't expect them, you didn't expect them. It seems kind of pointless to lay the blame on one or the other."

"But you can't deny that those things happened because I was involved." Johnny seemed almost confused by Edgar's quiet tone.

"That's not the point...it was an accident. A lot of this was accidental...so many things we didn't intend to do at one point or another. It's hard to blame you for an accident."

"...You...you forgive me?" Johnny sounded completely baffled.

"I didn't say that. I haven't really thought about that...I'm kind of tired, you understand."

"So...what did you mean?"

"Nny, there are certain things that...we have to talk about. That may have to change now. I've told you something you didn't expect...are you going to kill me now?"

Johnny didn't say anything for a while, staring at the steering wheel again.

"I meant to, but...I don't know."

"So let's assume that we'll stay friends, at least until the next crisis occurs or the next step down, and you decide to put me out of my misery, or just leave, or something like that. There are a few things you should know."

Johnny didn't seem comfortable with the conversation, and his hands tightened on the steering wheel.

"Like what?"

_Here goes._

Scriabin's voice was quiet. _Go for it, my boy._

"Do you remember when you asked me to conduct that experiment for you? To see if you could die?"

"...A little."

"Do you remember how it turned out?"

"I fell asleep-"

"No, before that. You didn't die."

Johnny didn't say anything, apparently mulling this over in his head. Edgar decided that he might as well make it perfectly clear.

"I'm assuming you didn't die because you were a lock, and you only...well, if you did at all, but you only died later on when you tried to kill yourself. I'm a lock now, I'm almost positive. That means..."

"You can't die..." Johnny said slowly.

"That's right. Which means that even if we do reach that perfection, if we still can, whatever it is, you couldn't preserve me anyway. You could hurt me...but you can't kill me. If you want to stay with me...you'll have to accept the fact that you can't stop our friendship when you want to anymore...you're stuck with me until we decide to part ways the normal way."

Johnny still had yet to say anything, staring straight forward with a blank look in his eyes.

"Our relationship has already changed, Johnny, and it will probably continue to change in the future. Especially since I'm probably going to go through that inevitable mental collapse that Satan mentioned. Being a lock will eventually destroy me from the inside...but you can't do anything about that until it's over. So the choice is yours...you can leave me now, with what memories you have of me currently, or you can stick with me and see if we can't make something better with the time we have."

Edgar took a deep breath, ignored an angry growl from his stomach, and looked at Johnny with a wan smile.

"Can we go now? I'm still hungry."

In response, Johnny slammed his hand down on the horn of his car, then screamed "_FUCK!_" as loud and long as possible along with the sound.

_I kind of expected something like that._

After what seemed like ages, Johnny finally let go of the horn and turned to Edgar, breathing hard and with a wild look in his eyes.

"How long have you known?! How long did you keep that from me?"

"Would that change anything?" Edgar said softly, still staring at Johnny without the least bit of emotion. "Would it make any kind of difference? You know now. What are you going to do?"

Johnny made several halting motions towards him, to take hold of his throat and crush the life out of him as far as he could guess, but in the end he returned to staring at the steering wheel, alternately gripping it with a creak of leather and then gesturing wildly to try and articulate his thoughts. Apparently, the hand motions didn't help very much, since all that Johnny seemed able to say or think at the moment was a long stream of obscenities mixed in various ways; some directed at nothing, some at himself, and some at Edgar.

Edgar closed his eyes and decided to wait until Johnny asked him something again.

"You."

"Yes?" Edgar opened his eyes and found Johnny inches away, leaning towards him with a strange expression. He wasn't quite sure how to classify it.

"What are you going to do?"

"I haven't thought it all through just yet..." Edgar tried to ignore another loud gurgle from his stomach. "But I want to go home and take a shower after we eat something."

"And?"

"Then I want to make peace with my God." Edgar's voice was breathy, and he struggled to keep focused. The world around him was shifting, moving and he'd been running too long and his body was suffering for it. He had to find something to eat and get some decent rest.

"Your god..." Johnny said with contempt.

"While I still have a chance..." Edgar mumbled. "Then I want to let everyone know what's happening to me...what will happen to me...make my peace with them before I'm lost."

"...Lost..."

"Collapsed...whatever that means. Probably won't even recognize myself then...just a shell of who I was. I'll probably commit suicide..." Edgar sounded as distant as he felt. "But I want to take care of things before I go..."

"Aren't you going to fight it?"

Edgar attempted a shrug. "I don't think I can. When there are no options left...make a graceful exit. I've always tried to do that...you saw me do it, when we first met." Prepared to meet his death then, but then again he had also been well prepared to go to Heaven as well.

"So you're just giving up?"

"What else can I do?"

"I don't know..._something_, Edgar!" Johnny clenched a fist. "Don't let them do this to you! They shouldn't have done this to you in the first place, their system is all fucked up and they don't know what they're doing and you shouldn't have to fight it, this shouldn't be happening to you!"

"So it's not your fault this happened to me, but their fault for choosing such a shoddy candidate in me. Don't you think?"

Johnny stopped mid-word, his mouth open, and Edgar gave him another weak smile.

"We can throw a lot of blame around but what good does it do...and we can talk of fighting but unless we know how, there's nothing we can do."

"We..."

"Yeah..."

"So you think I'll be with you?"

"I don't know that." Edgar's body twitched as his stomach cramped again, painful and sharp. "Maybe if you were it'd make things easier, maybe you'd know how to fight it...or maybe you'd make everything worse, make it all go faster. It's your decision."

"Why is it my decision?"

"I'll go with whatever you decide..." Edgar turned his head away from Johnny towards the window. "It doesn't really matter anymore, and I'll adapt to whatever path I have to take. I'm just tired and I'm so hungry, Nny, can we go now? Please?"

There was a silence, and then he heard Johnny start the car.

"Why don't you decide instead? Why don't you decide if you want me or don't want me?"

"It's not my decision, not really."

"What do you mean?"

"It's your decision because you can ki-...well, severely injure me as you proved. You're insane, a homicidal psychopath, and I'm...just a guy. I can't say no to you, not really."

"Yes you can."

"You say that but it's not true." Edgar closed his eyes.

"What- fuck you, of course it's true-"

"If I slapped you right now, what would you do?"

"What?"

"If I slapped you, what would you do?"

Johnny paused.

"There, you see...you're trying to think of something other than the first thing that came to mind...be honest with me, what was the first thing you thought of?"

Johnny didn't say anything for a while, and when he did his voice was soft. "I'd snap off the car antennae and shove it in your eye, then twist-"

"That's enough, but that's what I mean. You told me yourself...you're crazy, and you're still crazy, aren't you? Sometimes you work, but sometimes you don't, and because of the times you don't, I can't make you angry. Does that make sense?"

"...How long have you felt that way about me?" Johnny's voice was still quiet. "That you had to be so careful around me?"

Edgar kept his eyes closed. "Probably as far back as I can remember..."

Johnny didn't say anything for a while. Edgar eventually felt obligated to at least say something, if only because the silence had gone on so long.

"You told me yourself you were dangerous, unpredictable, broken. I was afraid of you."

"Are you afraid of me now?"

"Right now...I don't feel anything. I'm just...empty."

"Edgar..."

"Hmm?"

"What about Scriabin? What does he want?"

A twinge of surprise, and Edgar was sure he knew where it came from this time.

"I told you before, he doesn't affect my decisions. I'm still the dominant...person in this body." He couldn't think of a better way to phrase it. He heard Johnny tighten his grip on the steering wheel with a creak.

"I'm curious." Johnny's voice was completely deadpan.

"Scriabin...wants to stay away from you."

He expected him to say something, but he was strangely silent. Odd. Scriabin usually didn't give up chances like that.

"Why?

"He thinks you'll kill me."

Johnny paused to think about this for a few seconds. "So really, he thinks I'll kill _him_, doesn't he? That's what he's really afraid of, isn't it?"

"You're probably right." Edgar closed his eyes. He could feel a flare of indignation from Scriabin, but it was so expected that he barely reacted to it. "He wanted to keep me away from you."

_Most of the time. Other times he was trying to convince me I was gay to try and put a wedge in the only other relationship in my life._

_What, with your god? Surely you jest._

_You've never given me a good reason for why you pushed at me so hard to admit something that wasn't true._

_I just...I just don't even want to deal with this right now. With you doing this. It is so old it's not even funny, and I am not in the mood._ Scriabin sounded fairly surly.

"To keep himself alive...didn't he have some other form?"

"What?"

"Some...other thing. That action figure, didn't he move that? Or inhabit it, or talk to you through it? Why didn't he just go into that instead of staying with you? He'd be alive and in his own body then."

_Well?_

Scriabin made a scoffing, hateful sound and remained stubbornly silent.

_Why didn't you?_

_Oh la dee da, it's just so easy- you have no idea what you're talking about. Neither of you do. You have no idea what it's- just, ugh. Please, do me a favor and burst into flames._

_Sensitive area?_

_Imagine, Edgar, if you will, that your ability to understand me or my position or the motives for what I do is something like a grain of sand on a beach. You don't even comprehend the magnitude of how much it is about me you don't know or understand, and there are things about me that you could never understand. It's insulting to think that either of you could dictate to me what I should do, as if you have any idea what my existence is like._

_So your defensiveness is telling me that we're on the right track._

Scriabin made a "pfft" noise and again returned to silence.

"I'm not sure..."

"Has he ever moved the toy?"

"No...but he's talked through it."

_Only when you talk to me first, you may have noticed._

"Maybe he's not strong enough to do it yet..." Johnny sounded kind of thoughtful. "My voices were able to move their bodies around after a while, when they were strong enough...they separated completely from me and just ended up in the styrofoam. Do you think that'll happen with yours?"

"If it happened to you, then probably," Edgar said, with little emotion. The hunger gnawed at him, vicious and maybe that was what was making him feel so apathetic. Desperately trying to conserve energy. "Maybe Scriabin will end up in his toy, I don't know."

_Unless I'm not a voice like them._

"But Scriabin doesn't want to be with me..."

"No."

"And you...you don't care either way."

That didn't seem accurate somehow, but on closer inspection Edgar couldn't decide on why. "I care, it's just..."

"Aren't you scared of dying? Where's your fear? Where's...anything, Edgar? You're just...nothing. Like some kind of..." Johnny's voice trailed off in a strange way.

"I'd rather not die...but I don't have a choice. I'd rather just accept it and go as gracefully as I can." This all seemed familiar somehow...

"So it doesn't matter to you if I kill you or the system kills you now, does it..."

"Not particularly...I'll be dead either way."

"And me...what do you care about me?"

Edgar paused and thought. "I told you, I'm not sure what help you could be for me...but I don't know if you'd want to stay with me in the first place. You told me before about how you couldn't trust me, that things were ruined. I'm pretty sure they aren't going to get better."

Johnny didn't say anything.

"And from what you've told me...what you usually do before things go bad is stop them, freeze them. And it's too late now...how long ago was that, Nny? When you told me that? When you first decided to do that?" Edgar opened his eyes to look at Johnny, who kept his eyes focused on the road. "Months? Years? Do you remember how long ago that was? Are you still the same person you were back then?"

Johnny still didn't say anything.

Edgar stared at him a little longer, then turned and looked back out the car window.

"I know I'm not."

_Neither am I,_ Scriabin added, although somehow his heart didn't seem to be in it.

"You said that you thought you could change, or that I could change you, fix you. You told me that you want to be fixed, that things can change...and I've told you that I believe in you, in you being able to do that. The question now is...have you changed?"

"What do you mean?" Johnny's voice was flat.

"Are you willing to go through an entire relationship, good and bad, and let it end naturally? Are you able to devote the time to helping me at your own expense while I'm still alive? Are you able to think about me as a person, not a thing?" He shouldn't be saying this out loud, he wouldn't but right now he just didn't care, he was so tired and his stomach hurt so much. "Am I a concept or your friend? Which is more important to you? Have you changed enough for your goals to change?"

Johnny stayed quiet.

"I don't know...that's really your decision. If you've changed or not, or if you trust yourself enough to try. I can't make that decision for you. I just wasn't sure if you thought of it before...but that's another factor we can add into this, if you want. Whatever decision you make, I'll go with it. I'll try and make the most of the time I have left...whether or not you'll be there is up to you." Edgar sighed. "It's gotten to the point where nothing really matters either way..." He didn't really mean that, and he probably would have taken it back but...he just stayed quiet instead.

The car slowly came to a stop.

"Edgar."

"Yes?"

Johnny's voice was halting. "We're here."

Edgar sat up properly and looked out the windshield. Torgo's, finally. "Thank god. I feel like I'm going to implode if I don't eat something soon."

At Johnny's silence, he turned to look at him and found him staring at the steering wheel, his face expressionless. Edgar waited for a few seconds, trying his best to let Johnny think quietly to himself, but in the end his hunger got the better of him. He began rummaging through the car for change.

"I'm going to get something to eat. You can stay here if you want...up to you." A dollar bill crumpled under the seat. "Everything is your decision, nothing is controlling you." He was exhausted and hungry and could barely think straight as it was, but he remembered that being a concern of Johnny's, something he mentioned before he died and came back. If that's what happened, anyway.

There, that should be enough for a sandwich. Edgar opened the car door and stuck one leg out.

"Edgar."

"Hmm?" He was so close. He was salivating already.

"What would you have done if I said yes?"

"What?"

"If I said yes." Johnny turned and looked at him, and Edgar couldn't read his expression. "When you asked me if you wanted me to love you, or you to love me, or...whatever it was. Us in love." The distaste dripped from his words, obvious even if it didn't show on his face. "What would you have done if I said yes?"

Edgar stared at Johnny for a few seconds, hovering in and out of the car, then got all the way out.

"Just let me eat something, and I'll talk about it as much as you want. I can't think straight right now, Nny, it's a miracle I'm still talking to you at all. Just let me get a sandwich and come back and I'll tell you."

"Give me a word."

"What?"

"Give me a word. One word to describe what you would have done. Quick." Something dark in his tone. Edgar struggled to think and said the first word that came to mind.

"Nothing."

Johnny stared at him, and Edgar stared for a few more seconds before he took hold of the door. "I'm going to get a sandwich now. Okay?"

Johnny didn't say anything. Edgar waited as long as he could, which only turned out to be a few seconds, before he shut the door and headed into Torgo's.

_Should I have said that?_ He thought to himself. _Probably not..._

Scriabin's voice was faint. _This should be interesting._


	26. Choice

Torgo's wasn't as crowded as Edgar expected. He hadn't noticed as they'd pulled up, but this particular store was apparently sharing space with another food chain... an ice cream parlor. Sandwiches and ice cream... well, there were odder combinations.

Nothing else to do but get in line and wait.

_Funny... do you think Johnny will be waiting for you when you get outside?_

Edgar squinted at the list of sandwiches on the wall. The letters kept blurring and he hoped Johnny kept his glasses somewhere safe.

_You know... I'm not sure. I don't know what Nny's going to do now... I pretty much shattered his world into a million pieces._

_Marvelously, I might add. You have a real talent for it, my boy._

_Oh? Is that where you got it from?_

Surprise, and black anger from Scriabin. Edgar smiled slightly.

"Hey, what happened to your shoulder, dude?"

Edgar blinked, then tried to find the source of the voice. Some blond guy in front of him with too many piercings. Edgar coughed, and his voice was still hoarse.

"Excuse me?"

"Your shoulder, man. You got, like... a towel taped to it."

Edgar blinked, then pressed a hand to his forehead. Knife through the shoulder, near death experience, the fact that his right side still ached in a slow, throbbing way. The moments of sleep he'd managed to grab while sprawled out on Johnny's floor had apparently helped a little... he could move his right hand now, although it still hurt.

_I wonder, does your invulnerability also help you heal from injuries more quickly? Maybe a visit to the hospital isn't in order after all..._

"Oh... yeah, I just had an accident."

"But a towel?"

"I didn't have any bandages on me."

"That sucks." And then it was the man's turn to order, and that was the end of their brief conversation.

_Odd that he noticed you, don't you think?_

_Actually, now that you mention it..._

Edgar glanced around the store, and although he wasn't positive without his glasses on, he got the impression that everyone was staring at him.

_You don't cut a very elegant figure, my boy. No shoes, clothes too small, bloody towel on your shoulder held on with duct tape..._

_I've got to get to a hospital..._

_Maybe you do._

_It's weird... most of the time no one ever sees me... people don't notice me._

_Things are changing, my boy._ Scriabin sounded strangely comfortable, almost at ease. _Eventual collapse, and I'm sure the lock will help the world refocus on you, to better drive you to eventually put your head in an oven._

Edgar winced. _Doesn't that bother you?_

_It would if that's what was going to happen. _Scriabin still calm. _But, like I said before, I'm not going to let that happen to us._

Edgar didn't think that Scriabin would make much of a difference, particularly against a system that the devil himself seemed to answer to, but decided not to mention it. He twitched his right hand, causing a throb to go through his whole body and the memory of Jimmy's death to unpleasantly arise again.

Edgar pressed his fingers against his eyes, hoping that would make it go away and that he'd stop shaking.

"Sir?"

"Mmm?" Looked up to see the lady at the counter staring at him angrily.

"Sir, I've been asking for your order for five minutes. Either give me an order or get out of line."

Those behind Edgar agreed, and embarrassed, Edgar mumbled out a combo order and she got to work.

_I didn't... I don't know, I just didn't hear anything..._

_How awkward._ Scriabin sounded almost cheery somehow. _Not that their opinion matters, Edgar, simply ignore them. They mean nothing, don't they?_

Edgar answered the woman's questions about what kind of bread and meat he wanted. _I know what you're insinuating._

_What am I insinuating then?_

_Are we going to go back to the morality argument again?_

_Well, you never gave me an official answer. So far it seems like I was right in that the only life that really matters to you is your own, since you'll willingly throw others under the rails to save your own hide. So why concern yourself about what these walking targets think of you?_

_You're oversimplifying..._ Edgar couldn't really back that up, but he was sure that when he ate something he could think of a better excuse. _And Johnny... well, he didn't say for sure that he'd keep killing people..._

_Oh? Was I just imagining how he threatened to poke out your eye with a car antennae in the car?_

_...He didn't act on it..._

_It was still an urge, a natural reaction. Instinctual, almost. Nny's a simple creature, really, and have you ever known him to show clear judgement? To not kill people for stupid petty reasons on the spur of the moment? To think things through, period? How did you two meet again, care to remind me?_

"Salt? Pepper?"

"Yeah, sure..."

_I..._

_You don't have an answer, do you? You don't have any explanation for your shameful behavior so far, your moralistic preaching while you pocketed the donation money behind the scenes. You have allowed people to die through your inaction, and if your religion really means something, ANYthing to you, you will stop enabling Johnny and stop indirectly killing people._

"For here or to go?"

"...Here."

_I... well, I don't know that he's been killing people recently._

_Really._ Scriabin did not sound impressed with that answer, and Edgar knew it was weak.

Edgar shook his head, watching his sandwich being wrapped up and tried to think of any logical answer to Scriabin's question, any justification that wouldn't get torn to shreds, and instead...

_I just... I told him in the car that this was his decision... that was such a big problem for him, ever since I met him. I wanted to... let him decide if he's changed enough to accept what's going on. If I leave because of the murdering thing... then it really wasn't his decision at all._

_And I care... why?_

She stared at him in annoyance as he dug through his pockets for more money. The five he was holding wasn't enough... he was going to need a little more. The people behind him were grumbling impatiently, muttering insults and angry comments not quite softly enough, and he hoped that the third time he checked his foreign pockets that he'd magically find a twenty.

"Sir..." Exasperation clear in her voice.

"Um, just a minute... I know I have some more here somewhere..."

He heard the soft sound of paper hitting the counter, and the girl made a short, surprised sound. Edgar looked up and saw the blond man who had talked to him earlier.

"Here, I got it."

"Whatever," the girl muttered, taking the money and ringing up the register. Edgar squinted at the man and sighed in relief.

"Thanks, I forgot my wallet in the car..."

"No problem, dude. Figured you've been through enough already, right?" The man laughed and waved. "See ya."

"Yeah." And then he was gone.

_See how much easier this is when the person you're talking to isn't crazy?_

_You can't choose who you interact with all the time, _Edgar thought with some bitterness, and Scriabin laughed humorlessly. He picked up the sandwich bag and made his way to a table, looking out the window for Johnny's car. It was still there, for the moment.

_What if Johnny said he wasn't going to kill again?_

_Do you honestly think he would ever do that? How naive ARE you, Edgar? Do you actually think Johnny has any real control over his impulses? Over that fractured, sparking little broken mind of his? I doubt it. You doubt it. You're clinging to false hopes in hope that it'll defuse the argument, or put it off again so you don't have to deal with it, with the reality of the matter, and this is very real, Edgar. People are dying because of you. You need to do something about that._

He had no idea how much time had passed since Jimmy's untimely death, and the thought of how close he was, how foreign and monstrous Johnny had looked in that moment, gave Scriabin's words heavy weight.

_He is a murderer..._

_You've known that since you met him. That's HOW you met him._

_And he's insane... and even if he told me he would stop... could I really trust him?_

_No. Wait, was that hypothetical? It doesn't matter, the answer is still the same._

Edgar leaned to one side, chewing thoughtfully, and he could make out Johnny through the store windows. He was leaning over the steering wheel, head resting on his arms, staring off to one side with that deeply pensive look Edgar was familiar with.

_Thinking about what to say, what to do... leave me or stay with me._

_He's not going to stay with you, you know that, right? There's no way he would._

Edgar didn't say anything.

_Johnny's entire reality is fractured, broken in a way you'll never be able to understand, as well-meaning and scientific about the process you try to be. You'll never understand how he sees the world, or your place in it. Hints and glimpses, but you know as well as I do that Johnny's entire reality hinges on entirely different anchor points than ours. Than everyone else's. What you've told him, what you've done to his worldview... do you think asking him outright really changed anything? Do you think asking him if he'll leave or not actually made it a possibility? You were his entire world, Edgar, and now you're not. He loved Devi as much as he could love anyone, and he tried to kill her, and then he left her. He shadowed her, cowardly and unable and unwilling to try again, too afraid of real negative consequences to ever reach out to what he really wants. Tell me, Edgar, do you think you offer anything to Johnny right now but negative consequences? A front-row seat to your inevitable self-destruction? Do you think Johnny, who routinely kills people so they don't turn against him, will ever want to watch you do that?_

_...That was a long time ago... he may have changed now._

_He is not fixed, Edgar. And as long as he's broken, as you two so charmingly put it, there is no middle-ground._

_We had some... rough patches, but we came through them okay. I'm the only friend he's got, I'm the person he's known for the longest time... that has to mean something._

_Maybe it would, if he were sane, Edgar. But he's not. You keep forgetting this crucial point._

_You can't predict him anymore than I can._

_I'd say I'm a great deal more objective about this than you are, as pathetically entangled in him as you've become._

_You? Objective? When have you ever been objective?_

Scriabin sighed. _You have no idea, do you?_

_I know that you hate Johnny, that you've made clear many times. You've threatened me into leaving him, you've badgered me endlessly about it, you even took over my body to try and make him leave. Pardon me for believing that your motivations for telling me to stay away from Johnny might be a bit suspect._

_Of course, of course. I only hate Johnny because of some personal vendetta, not because he's a real danger and unhealthy drain on what will soon be your strained resources._

_I can't die._

_Did you enjoy the knife through the shoulder? I didn't._

_He can't kill me._

_As if that- have you even thought that through all the way, Edgar my boy? Wonder what would happen if Johnny snapped, as he does so often, and chained you up in his basement and forgot about you? Years and years, unable to die, wasting away long after Johnny's dead and everyone's forgotten you exist? Suffering can in some cases be worse than death, Edgar, and all you've ever done since you met Nny is suffer._

_I wonder how much of that was his fault, and how much was yours. _Edgar brushed off his hands. Johnny was still sitting in his car, staring out the window.

_I wonder how much of that you brought upon yourself,_ Scriabin responded, spiteful, and Edgar shook his head. Around and around in circles, never really getting anywhere, but Scriabin had a point about one problem that faced him. There was something he could no longer avoid, not now that his end was coming. He threw away his sandwich wrapper and walked out to Johnny's car, noticing that Johnny now had his eyes on him the entire time.

He got inside, and Johnny stared at him without saying anything for a few seconds. Although the sandwich had actually helped Edgar feel a lot better, he still didn't feel... much of anything in an emotional sense. He could wait for Johnny to speak.

"What were we talking about?"

Edgar stared back at Johnny, and decided to take a page out of Scriabin's book.

"What do you want to talk about?"

Johnny blinked at this question, then looked back to the store in front of them. He stared, apparently in thought, for a couple more moments.

"Do you want to live, Edgar?

Strange echoes from a time long past that Edgar couldn't clearly remember. Still, his next words felt familiar in a way that was almost uncomfortable, but unchangable regardless. "I'd rather not die... but I don't seem to have much say in the matter."

Johnny blinked at him, and he trembled for a moment before it passed. Some joint memory the two shared, vague and blurred over time.

_Who would have thought your memory would be so selective? Maybe some day in the future you won't recall Jimmy's death either..._

_There probably won't be a future._

"So... you don't care?"

"It's not that, exactly. It's just... there doesn't seem to be a point in fighting anymore. I've been fighting it for so long..." Edgar gestured vaguely, then let his hands fall. "I'm not sure that's what I'm supposed to do anymore."

Johnny paused, digesting this, before speaking again without looking at him. "Doesn't the fact you're going to die bother you? Scare you?"

"Every living thing wants to continue living, and deep down I'm no different. I guess what really makes us different is that we can accept it when the time comes."

Johnny made a skeptical noise, but didn't clarify any further than that.

_Deep down? Are you sure?_

_Acceptance is the first step-_

_It's more like it's the last._

"So... you don't want to live?"

"No, it's... it's more like whether or not I live or die... it doesn't seem as important to me anymore."

"So what do you want then?"

"Hmm?"

"What do you want, Edgar?"

Edgar knew him well enough to know that this question went deeper than the obvious, and he made a thoughtful sound to let Johnny know he was considering it. The first thing that came to mind didn't seem the best thing to say, but in his current state... there wasn't much more harm he could do to their relationship at this point anyway, and he may as well be honest.

"I want you to stop killing people."

Johnny didn't react at first, then slowly turned to stare at Edgar, his expression fairly unreadable. Edgar wasn't sure if Johnny would unpack that as he intended, and he ran a hand through his hair.

"Then we could still be friends."

_How adorable._

_You're not helpful._

_Oh, what a surprise._

"You still want to be friends with me?" It was a strangely simple, unloaded question when it really shouldn't have been.

Edgar paused, tried to find the right words and failed. "I wouldn't mind it."

Johnny seemed to consider this for a few moments. He turned his head away from Edgar, watching some teenagers walking down the sidewalk.

"Sometimes it's not like I mean to... it just happens. I'll be going somewhere, and all of a sudden I just want to get a bow and arrow and-"

"I know, I know. You told me you're crazy."

Johnny nodded slowly. "Even without the monster controlling me... I still get these thoughts, hear these voices... I'm making my own decisions, but I don't know how much that really changed anything."

"It wasn't the monster that made you murder people." Edgar hoped he was following Johnny's train of thought correctly.

Johnny nodded again, slowly.

"I understand what you're talking about." _No you don't._ "But I just can't... I can't be friends with you if you continue killing people, Nny."

"Why not?"

Edgar sighed. _You already know this is pointless, don't you? Are you still going to give it the old college try, my boy?_ "Because it's wrong."

"Wrong?"

"Killing people is wrong."

_You're wasting your breath. You're trying to explain color to a blind man._

_That doesn't mean color doesn't exist._

_I think that's stretching my analogy a bit far, don't you think?_

Johnny was silent, mouth pressed into a tight line, and his eyes narrowed. It took him a while before he spoke again.

"Why?"

Edgar waited a few seconds, watching Johnny and he could see all the muscles tightening in his body. He had a feeling that wasn't all Johnny was going to say, and sure enough, he could see the manic look in his eyes as he was gearing up for a rant.

"It's not like every disgusting excuse for a human being out there deserves to live or even really has a life to begin with, eating and fucking without thought like animals, mindless creatures going through the motions, their own lives worthless but still worth enough so that they can judge anyone that crosses their path..."

Typical Johnny rant, with the martyrish, self-righteous tone. Edgar decided to wait until Johnny wore himself out, since he didn't think there'd be much point in arguing with him until he calmed down.

It did take a while.

"Are you listening, Edgar?"

"I'm listening."

"So...?"

_Go ahead, tell him how you really feel._

"_Why_ you do it isn't important to me, or even who you do it to." _That's a lie._ "It's still something that I just can't... if you kill people, I can't tolerate that. I won't tolerate it."

Johnny didn't expect this response, and he didn't say anything.

"Are you willing to change to try and make our friendship better? So you can stay with me and help me?" Edgar looked at Johnny, who didn't meet his eyes. "Can you do that now, after all this time? See things through to the end, no matter how bad they get?"

Edgar waited for a response that didn't come, and he shook his head and looked away. "It's your decision. If you want to leave, I won't stop you. But if you want to stay with me... I want to have a clear conscience."

_For Heaven, isn't that right? Do you really think there's any chance you'll go there, regardless of whether you're implicit in Johnny's murdering?_

"Well..." Johnny seemed to be struggling with this concept. "If that's the case, then wouldn't you have to change in some way for me? In return?"

_What haven't I changed for you?_

_Your smug sense of self-righteous superiority?_

"What do you want me to do?"

Johnny stared at him, apparently unprepared for Edgar to make the offer. He looked away, staring at his hands on the steering wheel for a few minutes. Edgar waited.

"Can you be honest with me?"

Edgar blinked and made a questioning noise. Johnny turned to look at him. "So I'll know what's going on. Could you do that now?"

Edgar, taken aback, nodded after a few seconds.

"And Scriabin, tell me what he's doing."

Edgar nodded again, hesitantly, although he felt something from Scriabin in response, although he wasn't sure what.

Johnny kept eyecontact for a few more seconds, then looked back at his hands. "Do you really think I could help you?"

Edgar thought about this, and again found that his first thought was not the best, but if he was going to be honest...

"I don't think anyone can really help me now."

Scriabin made an angry dismissive sound in his head, and Johnny turned and stared at Edgar, clearly confused and perhaps a little angry. Edgar smiled weakly.

"But I'd rather not go through it alone."

A stabbing pain along his side, and he winced. He had a feeling that it wasn't from his shoulder.

Johnny stared at him, confused and blinking, then turned and gestured widely at the world outside his car.

"Then what's the point? If I can't stop what's happening, why should I even try? It's not like I want to watch you kill yourself. You're sort of important to me."

"For what reason, Nny?" Edgar asked, mildly.

Johnny didn't expect that, and he paused, trying to think of an appropriate response.

"Lots of reasons," he finally said, lamely, and it was obvious that his heart wasn't in his answer.

"Perfection was one of them, wasn't it?" Edgar didn't want to provoke Johnny, but while he was finally getting things into the open... "If I kill myself, go insane from this system, that's not perfect, is it?"

"No," Johnny said, as if it was a stupid question.

"If I could stop it from happening, I would." Edgar almost shrugged, but stabbing pain through his shoulder stopped that quickly. "But I don't think I can. I don't think anyone can. That can't be one of the reasons you're with me anymore, because I'm almost positive that things will only get worse. What are your other reasons? Why am I important to you?"

_What is the point of this discussion?_

_Sometimes they don't have points._

_With normal people, maybe. With you two? You need a shovel to dig through all the double-meanings you shove into everything so you can avoid telling each other how you really feel._

_That sounds familiar._

"You're my friend," Johnny said after a long pause, a bit hesitantly.

"Can you be there for me when things go bad? When everything's ruined? Will you still be my friend then, or will that be it?"

Johnny was still struggling with the idea, and Edgar got the unpleasant mental image of cogs in a machine, missing a central piece and clicking endlessly, pointlessly, sparking and grinding, unable to finish their connection.

_Lovely image._

_You think that was me?_

"But why would I be there if you weren't who you are anymore? Why would I be there if you're crazy and miserable and there's nothing I could do to fix it?"

"Sometimes there are things you can't fix." _His head, for example._ "Friends can't fix everything about each other. Sometimes things get bad."

"Then what's the point of having them!?" Johnny suddenly screamed, slamming the heel of one hand against the steering wheel with a dull thud. Someone walking by outside gave them an odd look. "They're supposed to make your life better, aren't they? What's the fucking point if they just make you feel worse? Like there isn't enough shit in the world to do that already!?"

_Poor broken clockwork boy, can't understand how real people work, just plays at the motions but in the end, it's all just as foreign and incomprehensible as always. Trying in vain to climb a ladder it wasn't designed to climb._

_He's still a person._

_He's insane. He'll never understand you, Edgar. He'll never have the slightest idea what goes on in your pathetic head, all those feelings you have for him that you keep in a whirling turmoil or locked in your emotional dead box, all of it outside his scope of comprehension. He will never understand you, know to react like a sensible human being, think of you as anything other than a toy or a passing footnote in his senseless, murderous life. All he wants are benefits, and now you have none to give._

"People aren't perfect, Nny." Edgar wasn't sure what else to say. "Sometimes when we talk or interact with them things don't go right, or they don't go as planned, and sometimes we get hurt, but that's how things are. That's how we work."

"Not if I don't _let _myself get hurt. Not if I stop the whole flawed process." Johnny held out one thin hand, like he was grasping the idea itself, and then he turned to Edgar with resentment in his eyes. "Now I can't do that with you, not anymore and I..."

"You don't know what to do," Edgar finished, and Johnny stared at him like he resented him for it.

_He'll never understand, Edgar. No matter how pleasingly you phrase it, he will never understand, he will never stop killing, he will never care more about you than he cares about himself. Never, never, never._

_Stop it._

_Finally._

"I can't make you promises, Nny. I can't promise you that any time we spend together after this will be good. I can't promise you that you won't get hurt, because I can't just stop anymore like you planned. I already hurt you, didn't I?"

"Yes," Johnny said, darkly, although Edgar intended the question to be rhetorical.

"If you stay with me... you will probably be hurt. When I kill myself, I'd like to think that you'll care, and it'll hurt. But we've had good times together, and I've talked and tried to help you work, as you put it, and I'm willing to try to do the same if you do decide to stay with me. It won't be all bad, at least not for a while."

"...But you don't think I can help you."

"Like I said, I don't think anyone can help me."

"Then what's the point!?" Johnny said, again furious. "What's the point of just watching you die and not being able to do anything about it?"

"What makes this so different from what you were planning before? Our perfection?"

Johnny paused for a moment, then looked to Edgar with a pained expression that startled him.

"I would have been _happy_ then," he whined.

_It's a wonder you don't punch him in the face sometimes. I know I would._

Edgar sighed, and he pressed a hand to his forehead.

"Look, I've already told you before... I've made every argument I can think for you, and it still comes down to you. This is your decision, Nny. If you want to stay with me, try and keep me sane as long as possible, take whatever happiness you can get from me before I die, then I'll welcome you into my inevitable self-destruction. But if you want to leave, then I won't stop you. It's up to you."

"Would you be happier if I was with you?"

"I can't say. I don't know what'll happen in the future, or what will exactly happen to me. Maybe it won't be so bad, maybe I'll go home and shoot myself right away." Johnny's eyes widened at the thought, and he saw his body tense. "I don't know, and you don't know either. We won't know unless we do it."

Johnny looked outside and glared at the sidewalk for a few seconds. "That sucks."

"Life isn't easy. I guess my death isn't either." _I'm sure Heaven is still wound up in all the bureaucratic red tape I left them last time I visited._ "But this is your decision."

"What about if I want to stay with you, but keep killing people?"

Edgar winced, and remembered his words to Scriabin not so long ago. _I want it to be his decision, and if there are conditions..._ "...I really wish you wouldn't."

"But what if I do?"

Edgar didn't know what to say, and he struggled for a suitable answer before settling on the one response that wouldn't leave him alone. "Are you saying you _will_ stay with me?"

Johnny looked at him for a few more seconds, then shrugged. "I'm just asking."

_A loophole, maybe..._

_A loophole? My boy, I know loopholes, and that's no loophole. You're just compromising your integrity, as usual. No surprise._

"If you do decide to stay with me... then I guess we can cross that hurdle when we come to it," Edgar said, decidedly awkward. He wasn't sure if Johnny would notice, given his general lack of empathy.

"Edgar..."

"Yes?"

"...I need some time to think about this."

He wasn't sure how he felt about that response. His shoulder again ached horribly, and he sighed under his breath.

"That's fine. Can you take me home?"

Johnny started the car, and he didn't say anything further. Edgar rested his head against the window, and he stared at nothing.

_He's going to leave. You know that, don't you?_

Edgar wasn't in the mood for talking anymore.

Johnny stayed quiet until they pulled up in front of Edgar's apartment building, and then he started as if someone had poked him. He reached into the pouch of his sweater and pulled out something that shone.

"Here." Edgar looked at him, and Johnny again held the object out to him. "Your glasses. I hung onto them, 'cause I thought they might get broken on the floor."

Edgar took them from Johnny's hand and put them back on, and immediately his headache eased a little. Staring at Johnny in focus brought his features into more clarity, but gave Edgar no further ability to really understand how he felt.

"Thanks."

He waited a bit longer to see if Johnny would say anything further, but instead he just stared at him, unreadable. Edgar finally decided that he'd spent long enough, and he got out of the car slowly.

When he shut the door behind him, Johnny started the car, and he was speeding off before Edgar could even wave goodbye.

_You'll never see him again._

He heard something hit the sidewalk up the street. Something from Johnny's car, and it sparkled in the light. He walked to it slowly, and then bent down and picked up his keys.

_How did he get these?_

_I hope you didn't leave anything else important in his house, like your self-respect. Oh wait._

Edgar went up to his apartment, unlocked the door, took a shower, did a poor job of rebandaging his shoulder with an old scarf and cotton balls, and went to sleep.

It would be a month before he'd hear from Johnny again.

He was not the same person by the end of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Thank you to those who have stuck with this through long dry periods. I have the rest of this planned out, mostly, and it's generally just a matter of getting it all down. Your support has been very encouraging though, and I'll try to make more timely updates in the future if I can.


	27. Audience

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended Listening: Oingo Boingo's "Insanity".

"Hello?"

"Edgar."

"...Yes?"

"...It's Nny."

"Oh."

Pause.

"Hi."

"Yeah."

Pause.

"Edgar?"

"Yes?"

"Are you okay?"

Pause.

"I'm alive."

"What does that mean?"

"I'm alive."

"What does that _mean_."

Slight shuffling on the end of the line, paper rustling.

"I'm still alive."

"Are you okay?"

"Did you know it's been a month since you've called me?"

Silence.

"Or contacted me in any way. A month, you know that? It went by-" And then the sentence just stopped, like that was the end.

"Edgar."

"I'm still alive." Lighter, but false.

"Edgar, are you _okay_."

"Do you want it in writing?"

Digging into the table. "What happened?"

"Nothing unexpected."

"..." Deeper. "This is Edgar, isn't it?"

"Hmm?" Casually.

"Or are you... Scriabin?"

Pause.

Then a soft, unpleasant laugh.

"You can't tell the difference?"

"You are Scriabin! Put Edgar-" No. "Give it- Let him-"

"Hmm?" The same casual way as before.

"Scriabin-"

"If you say so."

Edgar hung up.

Edgar _hung up_ on him.

\---

"Hello?"

"Edgar."

"Nny! I was- I was wondering when you'd call or, well, you- just show up or something, it's been a while..."

"...Yeah."

"Are you alright? You haven't, uh... been..."

"I haven't killed anyone, if that's what you wanted to ask."

"Oh." Pause. "Oh, that's good."

_Ask me what that means._ "Edgar, are you alright?"

"Uh, I've been... better, I guess. I'm not... well, it's kind of hard to describe? I don't know... well, you kill people for a living- no, you don't make money from it, you just do it, but... yeah, it doesn't bother you I bet."

"Edgar, are you alright?"

"Huh? Hold on."

Muffled sounds, talking, something falling.

"Yeah, what?"

"Edgar, is there someone there?"

"No, not- no, just me." Voice moving in and out from the phone. "What were we talking about?"

"You seem distracted."

"Do I? Sorry, I've just had a lot on my mind recently, stress and-" Pause, muffled sound. "Work, that sort of thing. My shoulder's healed."

"...That's good."

"It healed really quickly, too. It's weird."

Pause.

"Edgar, are you alright?"

"Huh?"

"I... called you before. A day or two ago."

"You did?" Faint scratching sounds. "I don't- well, yesterday's sort, was sort of a blur, unless... no, I think it was yesterday... maybe the day before? I was really... busy... hard to keep track of everything..."

"Edgar?"

"Huh?"

"Do you remember what I said?"

"When?"

"When I called you."

"When? Oh, yesterday. Or the day before. Hmm. I don't really... remember yesterday at all, actually."

"So it _was_ him."

"What? Yeah, that's- hold on." Muffled sounds, talking, a clatter. "Yeah, that's great. What?"

"Edgar, what are you doing over there?"

"What?"

"Edgar-" Pause. "Edgar, are you... okay?"

Pause.

"You know..." Manic tone suddenly slow. "I do remember your call the other day."

"You do?" A feeling like falling suddenly.

"Yeah... you kept asking me if I was okay."

"Yeah."

"Why? You're not worried or anything, are you?" Still speaking slowly, strangely slowly after the storm.

"I don't know if... worried is the right word for it..."

"Well." Matter of factly. Then nothing.

Nothing.

"Edgar?"

"Hmm? Did you need something?"

"I wanted to talk to you..."

"Talk away, I can work and talk at the same time."

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing. Go on."

"It's about..."

"Ha." Snide and unnatural, like it was spliced in from somewhere else. "Stop it."

"...Never mind."

Slammed the phone down and ignored it.

\---

"Hello?"

"Edgar?"

"Oh, Nny." Sigh. "I was worried you might not call again. Sorry about my behavior recently... I haven't felt like myself."

"...Yeah."

"Just... things have gotten weird. Really weird. I don't know how to explain it, it's just... I don't know. Half the time I'm not sure if it's really you I'm talking to or someone else... God, that sounds terrible, doesn't it?"

"Edgar, are you alright?"

"I've been better." Another sigh. "Like I said, things are getting... weird. More... flexible, if that makes sense? Hard to explain. I'm not really sure what's going on anymore..."

"Yeah, that sounds about right."

Pause.

"Oh, that's right... you've done this before. Heh." No humor. "It's not easy."

"Edgar."

"Yes?"

"I've been thinking about what you asked me."

"...What did I ask you?"

"In the car. About killing people."

"Oh, that..."

Silence.

"So...?"

"You said that you couldn't promise me that you won't hurt me before you die, or that things will get better before they get worse."

"That's true." A pause, a few sounds like he was about to say something, and then nothing.

"... I don't think I can promise you I can stop killing either."

"Oh." Disappointed.

"What I mean is, I can't... control myself sometimes. Even if I'm trying."

Pause.

"I... see."

Pause.

"So, Nny..." He didn't say anything in response. "Does this mean you're staying with me?"

"...No."

Pause.

"Well, not exactly."

"What do you mean?"

A few moments to gather his thoughts.

"You're not going to get better, even if I want to help... but I don't want to make it worse either. I think right now I'd just make things worse."

"That... doesn't sound like you."

An irritated sound. "What do you mean?"

"Well, if you ever cared about me... killing me would have bothered you more than it did, right?" A growing cold feeling. "I can understand why you wanted to do it, but..."

"Before things are ruined."

"Things are already ruined, aren't they?"

"Yes."

"So I find it hard to believe that you care about ruining things further. It's all over as far as you're concerned, right?"

"...Edgar?"

"So, what are your plans?"

"...You said you didn't want to go through this alone."

"Ha. I'm never alone."

Pause.

"Scriabin."

"That's right. Never alone."

"So you don't really need me, do you?"

"I've never really needed you, Nny. I think you needed me."

"It _is_ you. I knew it."

"Blew my cover, did I? Sometimes it's hard to resist."

"What are you doing to him?"

"Here's a fun game for you while you work up the courage to call again, Johnny. Can you pinpoint when I came in and Edgar left? Or have I been here the whole conversation, and you just can't tell the difference between us?"

"I can tell the difference-"

"Yes, when I let you. You two are such good friends, aren't you."

Edgar hung up.

\---

"Edgar, what happened?"

"What do you mean?"

"What happened to you?"

"You mean... after the car?"

"Yeah."

"I... had a dream."

\---

"I don't want to talk to you."

"Has it occurred to you that you may not have been talking to Edgar at all for the past few months? That your last conversation was with him in the car?"

"You can't control him forever, you're not a person-"

"Is that a challenge? I accept."

"It wasn't-"

Edgar hung up.

\---

"Nny, you haven't... been in my house lately, have you?"

"What?"

"Last time you were here... well, not the last time, but the first time. But you went through my things... moved things, do you remember? Little things, like my lamp or my books."

"I don't remember a lot of things. It gets kind of indistinct after a while."

"But... you haven't been here lately, have you?"

"No."

"So... you haven't been going through my things... then..."

He was about to say something when Edgar made a soft sound and hung up.

\---

"Nny, you know about what's going on, don't you?"

"What, you mean with you?"

"Sort of, more like... what's happening to me. The waste lock system, all of that. You know about that, right?"

"I know what Satan told me about it."

"He talked about a system that wasn't controlled by him or God, right?"

"He said something like that."

"How do you know that's the only one?"

"Only one what?"

"Only system, Nny. What if there were others?"

"...What do you mean?"

"What if there were other systems, like the lock one? Like branches off the basic concept... all with a different purpose and a different end result."

"Are you saying... you're part of one of thosesystems?"

"Me? No, I'm-" Pause, and a sharp intake of breath. "You... I'm Edgar, Nny. You knew that, right?"

Pause.

"You knew it was me, didn't you?" A strange, pleading tone in his voice that he didn't like. "You could tell, right?"

Pause.

"Oh God... oh God." And he hung up.

\---

"What time is it?"

"Uh... give me a second." Pause. "Three AM or so."

"Really?" Surprised.

"Yeah."

"But there's light... outside..."

"From a streetlight?"

"...I must have... never mind."

\---

"I feel like... sometimes there's something very close by. Like something is breathing over my shoulder. It's not there when I look for it, but I feel like if I stop... if I stop checking, then..."

"I know that feeling."

"Is that normal with this? I mean... with this whole breakdown? Is that normal?"

"I don't think there's a normal way through it. Maybe you'll be okay."

"You don't really believe that, do you?"

\---

"If you were a part of one of those other systems... does that mean you're not a lock? You won't end up destroying yourself?"

"What on earth are you talking about?"

\---

"I have the worst headache. You would not even believe how bad this headache is. I can't sleep."

"What's wrong with that?"

"What's wrong- I haven't slept in days, Nny! God, it's gotten to the point where I'm seeing things-"

He hung up.

\---

"Edgar?"

"I'm sorry-"

That was all he said.

\---

"I don't know what's going on anymore. I don't know what's happening to me. I didn't think it'd be like this."

"Uh huh."

"Why is this happening to me? What did I ever do to deserve this?" A sharp gasp, and a whimper of pain. "I didn't mean th- stop-"

Click.

\---

"Did you ever have problems with doors?"

"What do you mean, 'problems'?"

"With doors, did you ever... did they ever do things?"

"What kind of things?"

"Just... things they're not supposed to."

"Like what?"

\---

"I don't know how to talk to you anymore. I don't know who you are. I'm not sure if I'm imagining it or not. It's hard to tell."

"So how many people did you kill today?"

\---

"I feel like I haven't slept in ages. Like I'm... like there's something keeping me awake. Like there's... too much to do, I can't stop. I can't rest. There's... something important and I need to be awake for it."

"I know that feeling."

"I have... maybe I have been getting some sleep, but I don't even know. I can't tell. There are these periods where I can't remember anything... was I asleep? Sometimes there are these black periods... was I asleep then? I don't think I'm dreaming... unless I'm dreaming now."

"Have you asked him about it?"

"I don't know what he's doing right now..." A furtive whisper. "He's not... he keeps talking about things I don't understand. About things I can't see. Like... he's existing somewhere else from me. Things don't feel right. It's never been like this before. When I talk to him, he talks about these... none of it makes sense. I'm so tired of fighting this but I don't want to know what'll happen if I stop. If he stops."

"It might be easier if you'd stop fucking with him, Scri."

"_Fuck you_." Slammed the phone down.

\---

"Why do you think there are other systems anyway?"

"I don't know... if there's one, why not more? Who's to say?" Exhausted. "I don't know if he's part of that or something else." A high whine. "He's not."

"Of course it's going to tell you that, Edgar. It doesn't want you to stop whatever it's doing."

"No, I- ow- I think he's... nng, I think he's telling the truth, and..."

Pause.

"Edgar?"

"Have you talked to Devi recently?"

"...Edgar?"

\---

"What's that noise?"

"I'm sorry, Edgar can't come to the phone right now. Please leave a message at the sound of the tone."

Click.

\---

"Did you ever wake up and find things you didn't remember buying?"

"Yeah." Crunching on a Cheeto.

Pause.

"Uh... did you... what did you do about it?"

"Nothing. What can you do? You must have gone shopping at some point. The end."

"I'm not used to... missing time like this. I usually have a good memory..."

"That's weird." Another Cheeto. "I lose time all the time."

"Was it... did your..." Voice lowering, hesitant. "Did your voices ever... take you over?"

"No." His teeth clicked together. "They didn't want me, they wanted their own lives."

"But that's what he wants, I think." Quieter. "He wants to be alive-"

"Tell him to get in his toy if he wants to be alive so much."

The line went dead.

\---

"How many windows does my apartment have?"

"I don't recall."

"Hmm..."

"...Why?"

"It's just... I don't remember there being this many." Distant. "I shouldn't even be able to see the outside from this one, it's on the wrong side of the building."

Silence.

"But I can see outside..."

\---

"I feel... I feel so tired."

"Makes sense."

"Not just because I can't sleep but... it's like I've been running a marathon, my legs and my back and my shoulders... they all burn. Everything's... my hands can't stop shaking, my whole body is so tense. I don't even know why and it won't stop. I've tried everything. Taking a shower doesn't help, heat doesn't help, tea doesn't help, nothing works... it just won't stop."

"What about...?"

"I think... it's the same for him."

"Are you sure?"

\---

"I lost a week. I lost a whole week. I went to make breakfast and I looked at the calendar and it says it's the 15th. It was the 8th yesterday. I swear it was."

"...I'm not very good with time."

"I swear it was, and my watch, it says... it says it's the 12th. What's going on?"

"...Check the TV?"

"It doesn't work, nothing works. Nothing works here anymore, nothing's working. Nothing's working."

"You mean the power's out?"

"When I touch things, something happens and- I can't deal with this, I don't- nothing's working, I try to leave and I end up back here again, going in circles, I can't... hhff I can't breathe... it's happening again..."

"Edgar?" A groan in response. "Edgar? Are you alright?"

"I..."

He dropped the phone.

"Edgar? Edgar, are you still there?"

Footsteps, something hitting the floor, and a strange, tremulous cry that ended in a choked sound. Irregular heavy breathing, gasping and trying to speak on the inhale to no avail, a loud clatter, more footsteps.

It went silent.

"Edgar? Edgar, are you still there?" Nearly yelling. "What's going on?"

Nothing.

Then he heard a soft click as someone put the phone back in its cradle.

\---

"What are your plans, Nny?"

"What?"

"Are you staying with me or not? You said you'd just make things worse, didn't you? But you're still calling me."

"I..."

Pause.

"Don't tell me it's just your sense of morbid curiousity." A weak laugh. "You've been through this yourself, you should know what it's like, right?"

"I... I don't know." Hand in his hair. "I try not to, but... I want to know if you... if you're dead yet."

"You're lucky I know what that means."

"...What does it mean?"

"...Never mind, I was thinking of something else. Well, if you're waiting to see when I'll die... I don't think you'll have much longer to wait. I just feel... I don't know what the point is anymore."

"Isn't suicide against your religion?"

"Yeah. But I don't think being friends with you helped me any."

"...You're not dead yet."

"...That really depends on your definition."

\---

"Do you want me to come over there? I will."

"I spent all of today with Devi. Did you know that? Were you following us like usual? She's told me all about you."

"I'll do it."

"I like being with her. She actually listens when I'm talking."

"Scriabin, stop it-"

"She said she likes me."

\---

"Did you see the sun today? It was all blood red like it gets sometimes when the pollution's bad. I've always thought that was kind of creepy... it just doesn't look natural. They should really do something about the smog, you know? But at least it was something different. I thought maybe you'd like something like that, since..."

"It was raining all of today, Edgar."

"...Are you sure?"

\---

"Bet you wish it was goin' faster, don't you? Bet you wish I'd just fuckin' die already, save you th' trouble, callin' and calling and not havin' me validate you, what a damn shame, how hard this must be for you, shit."

"Are you _drunk_?"

\---

"Did you call me, or did I call you?"

"...I called you."

"How... how long have we been talking?"

"...About an hour."

"Oh God."

\---

"Do you know the story of Job?"

"What?"

"It's a story in the Bible."

"...No."

"Right, that was probably a stupid question, but I can't stop thinking about it. It keeps running through my head. I can't stop th... what if this is all a test of my faith? What if this is all a test and _I'm failing_?"

He hung up.

\---

"I'm..."

"Edgar..."

"What did I even have to lose..." Shaky and weak. "I didn't think I had so much until it was all gone... there's nothing left, nothing between me and that... I know it's there, waiting for a chance..."

"What are you talking about?"

"That... different systems, if there are different systems, they might have different purposes... different goals, different methods, might... not agree with each other, God my head, my head it hurts, I've tried so much aspirin and it still hurts, the whole thing is empty and I can still feel it in there, I can hear it all around me-"

"How many pills did you take?"

\---

"I can't sleep."

"I know."

"I can't sleep. I can't sleep."

"Edgar, I know."

"I'm going insane."

\---

"Do you ever read your horoscope?"

"No."

"I didn't think so..."

"Aren't horoscopes against your religion or something?"

"What? No."

Awkward pause.

"Well, anyway... I looked at mine for today."

"What did it say?"

"It just..." Pause. "'You're going to die'."

"...That's what it says?"

"Yeah. That's all. I guess it's someone's idea of a joke. Bad taste if you ask me."

"Are you sure that's what it says?"

"I have it right here. 'Your birthday - You're going to die.'"

"It's your birthday?"

"...Yeah."

"...Are you sure that's what it says?"

"I'm reading it right now. And the others..."

"What about... what does Scriabin think it says?"

Pause.

He hung up.

\---

"What is that?"

"What's what?"

"That sound... there, there it goes again. What is that?"

"I don't hear anything."

"Is that... is that a cat?"

"I don't have a cat."

\---

"I want to help you."

"Oh really. Is that what you call it?"

"What do you want from me? Isn't that what you want to hear?"

"If you really want to help, why don't you come over here and put a bullet between my eyes?"

"...I don't like guns."

\---

"God, I can't do this, I can't do this, I can't do this..."

"Then _stop_, stop it and leave him _alone_-"

"I can't, I can't stop. Do you know what'll happen to us if I stop? I can't stop, I can't stop for a second, if I stop trying then it'll happen again, I can't let it happen again..."

"Let what happen again?"

"You don't know- you can't ever know, you don't... I can't let that happen to him again. I have to keep fighting. I can't let this happen. I promised that I wouldn't. We have to get out of this. We can't die."

"_You _just don't want to die."

"Of course I don't want to die, nobody wants to die. I worked this hard to be alive, I don't want to die."

"Then stop hurting him, you-"

"I'm not- you don't understand anything, it's the only way-"

He hung up.

\---

"You know how sometimes when you're watching TV, you talk to it even though it's just pictures?"

"Yeah."

"Did you ever feel like... they could hear you?"

Silence.

"I don't mean- I know that sounds crazy, doesn't it?" Weak laughter. "But I didn't mean a _lot_, just... kind of like they look at you for a second, like they heard you. Like there's a connection..."

"Uh..."

"You know what, never mind, I was probably just tired or something. Let's talk about something else, okay?"

\---

"You don't know how hard this is for me to do. I'm not good at this sort of thing. I read books on this so I could help you better, for god's sake."

"Your life, _so hard_."

"Fuck you."

"Which book was that in?"

\---

"I can hear him sometimes. In the back of my mind, just... talking softly. To himself. He never talked to himself before. Just to me."

"What do you think it means?"

"I don't know... I don't know what anything means anymore. I don't know what's happening. Everything... nothing feels real anymore. Like I can push through- like there's nothing in between me and-... I don't know."

"You have to do something about him. He's just making this worse."

"I don't know if there's anything I can do anymore, I think it's over. It's all over for us, for everything. I can't even..."

"Has he tried to move outside of you? Through his toy?"

"He doesn't need a toy... he has me to work through. I think it's him anyway. Sometimes it feels like... I'm not here, like I'm... drifting..."

"Drifting...?"

"Something... like drifting out to sea. And there's something tied to me that's keeping me back."

"Untie it."

"I don't think I should. He told me not to."

"That's why you should."

"Or... I told me not to... I can't even... God sometimes it's hard to tell, me or him, him or me, who did what and when and why... why..." Breaking, and he hung up.

\---

"He had another dream last night."

"I hate dreams."

"He's not awake yet."

"...What?"

\---

"Johnny, if this was the last conversation we ever had, what would you say?"

"What do you mean?"

"If I died tomorrow, what would you want to say to me?"

"At your grave?"

"Before I died."

"...Are you planning something?"

"So... nothing then."

"...I don't know what you want to hear."

"That's not why I asked." A sharp grunt, and a change in tone. "Since when have you ever cared about what I want?"

"Are _you _planning something?"

"If I am it's the first I heard about it. But I must admit I'm curious about your answer as well."

"What answer?"

"Is there anything you'd want to tell me before I died?"

"I wish I'd known about you earlier so I could have done something."

"What makes you think you could have done something? For all you know, the process is irreversible."

"...Process?"

"What would you say to him, if this was your last chance? Go ahead, be candid. Or would you prefer to record your planned speech and then play it over an answering machine? I've heard you like doing that."

He hung up on him.

\---

"I got some plants today."

"That's... good."

"I thought this place could use some life."

"You don't sound that happy about-"

"They all died."

"What?"

"They're dead. They're all dead."

"...All of them?"

"It only took twenty minutes. What's happening t-"

Click.

\---

"Have you talked to Todd lately?"

"Squee? I haven't seen him, actually... I saw some weird lights by his house though."

"Oh."

"Might have been aliens."

A sigh.

\---

"I've stopped getting mail."

"You got mail?"

"...Ouch."

"I just..." _What did the books say about this_ "I never get mail."

"Yeah, I got mail." Quieter. "Bills and junk mail mostly. I never paid much attention to them before, but now it's all stopped."

Silence.

"My mailbox is empty. I went downstairs to check it, and nobody saw me. There were five people there, and it was like I was invisible." A slight pause, then, "No, it's not like it was before.You know it wasn't." Pause. "Then why did you even say that? Do you even think about what you say anymore?" Pause. "This is different, this is worse..."

"Edgar?"

"This is so much worse..."

\---

"Nny," in a singsong kind of voice, "do you remember those books?"

"What books?"

"The books in my house. You remember, don't you? Before you died."

"What are you talking about?"

"Those books. Do you remember those books you wrote in?"

"You_ read_ those?!"

\---

"Are you happy with this?"

"With what?"

"With what you have. With me."

"You mean Edgar?"

Sigh.

"Are you Edgar?"

"God, I'm never going to get used to you asking me that..."

"...Sorry."

"But are you happy with this? Our friendship? Our relationship?"

"Of course not. You know that already."

Pause.

"Oh, that's right. Your perfection was already ruined like... God, how long has it been?" A false and weak laugh. "I still have nightmares about that."

"About what?"

"What you did to him. To that boy."

"Why?"

"...You really don't understand at all, do you?"

"It's not like I did anything wrong. I practically did the world a favor."

A long sigh.

"Never mind."

\---

"How can you still believe in a god that would do this to you?"

"I can't question His decisions."

"That's bullshit, you can question him all you want. You _saw_ him, didn't you? Why didn't you ask him why all this shit keeps happening to you? Why didn't you demand a goddamn explanation for why the world is so shit?"

"It's not my place."

"What the fuck does that even mean?"

"He's God. He's beyond our understanding. You can't question His decisions... He doesn't answer to us."

"He should fucking answer to _you_! You want this to stop, don't you? How can you love someone that treats you like shit even when you do everything they want?"

"...You sound like someone else I know."

"...Don't ever say that again."

\---

"Why don't you ever come over here, Johnny? If you want to help him so much, if you want to fix things, why don't you come over here in person?"

"I-"

"If you want to kill me, like you've told me so many times, why don't you come over here and do it?"

"I... I can't."

"I thought so."

"No, I mean... I tried but... I can't. I can't find you."

"How convenient."

\---

"Nny, have you ever... heard of someone called Shmee?"

"You mean Squee's bear?"

"...Not exactly."

"What do you mean?"

"Have you ever... _talked_ to someone called Shmee?"

He hung up.

\---

"You've got to stop drinking."

"Sometimes that's all that makes it stop."

"You've got to stop doing this to him."

"Maybe he wants me to, you ever think of that?"

\---

"I've been thinking... I told you once that I felt like you helped me. Like you made things easier, quieter... like you could help me think more clearly. Made the noise stop. I didn't have any control back then, but you made me feel like I did. I don't know how much of a difference that really made in the end, but it was important to me anyway. Maybe I can do that for you now... but I need to learn how to do it first. I'm not sure where to start, but I signed up for some studies at the hospital... maybe they'll give me some idea about what I should do. I want to... do something. I can't take much more of you getting worse."

Click.

\---

"Hello?"

"Edgar?"

"No, who's this?"

"...Scriabin?"

"Nope." A pause, then a tiny squeak. "Is this the neighbor man?"

"...Squee? What are you doing over there?"

"Mr. Edgar didn't think I should be at my house by myself, so I'm staying at his house for a while." Another thin squeak. "You're not coming over here, are you?"

"I wasn't planning on it. What's happening over there, anyway?"

"Mr. Edgar's not doing too good." Whispering. "Neither is Mr. Scriabin."

"Both of them?"

"Uh huh."

"Why aren't they answering the phone?"

"Mr. Edgar isn't home, and he told me not to answer if it rang."

"Where is he?"

"He went out."

"...Edgar or Scriabin?"

"Uh..." Pause. "I think it might have been Mr. Scriabin."

"Where did they go?"

"I dunno."

"When are they coming back?"

"I dunno."

"...How are you doing?"

"I'm okay. My parents got abducted by aliens."

"Yeah, I think I saw that. I told you, every tuesday."

"But I'm okay without them. Shmee's with me too, so I'm not lonely. He doesn't like Mr. Scriabin though."

"...Really."

"Yeah, they fight a lot. But it's on the inside, you know? Like with their brains. So you can't hear them unless you're sleeping."

"Dreaming, huh?"

"Yeah. Shmee said he knows him from a long time ago, but now it's different. But he still thinks it's better here than at home."

"Yeah."

Pause.

"Squee, has Edgar told you anything about what's going on with him?"

"Shmee says he's got something trying to get him. Like... what happened with you, but different. He says Mr. Scriabin is trying to stop it."

"I doubt it." _He's part of it._ "But anything else?"

"Shmee says Mr. Edgar probably won't hang on much longer. He's too tired to fight much now. When Mr. Scriabin gives up, it's over. Then we'll have to go back home."

"He hasn't hurt you or anything, has he?"

"Nuh uh, he's nice to me. He walks with me to school when he remembers. But he's forgetting a lot of the time now."

"What about Scriabin?"

"He's sort of mean, especially to Edgar and Shmee. But he's not too mean to me. He says I remind him of someone."

"_Remind_ him of someone?"

"Yeah, like... from his past. That's what he said."

"He doesn't have... never mind. What else has been going on over there?"

"I've been drawing a lot. I get lots of weird dreams here."

"No, I mean... with Edgar. Is there anything else weird going on?"

"Um... his face bleeds sometimes. Under his eyes where those scars are."

"Really?"

"Yeah. And he talks to himself a lot, but he might be talking to Mr. Scriabin, it's hard to tell. Sometimes I think he sees things like Mommy did. He sounds like her sometimes."

"Anything else?"

"Uh... I dunno. He doesn't talk to me about it very much. I think he doesn't want to make me worry. He says things are okay, but they aren't. He thinks I don't notice. But Shmee tells me about it sometimes. He says the monster that's after him won't let him sleep. Mr. Scriabin is scared of it."

"...What kind of monster?"

"Like... a monster. It lives in a dark place. It keeps trying to find a way here, but Mr. Scriabin keeps tricking it away. Sometimes they fight and it's awful, they scream and scream all night and I can't sleep."

"Who fights, Edgar and Scriabin?"

"Um... yeah, they do too sometimes. But I meant the monster and Mr. Scriabin."

"Hmm." _Faking an attack to try and keep Edgar's trust..._

"They're both really tired. Mr. Scriabin especially. He says he won't let it win. But Shmee says it's already won, it's really just a matter of time."

"Does the monster live anywhere in the apartment? Does it want anything?"

"I don't think so. I don't think it's here yet. Mr. Edgar hasn't told me if it wants anything or not. It's just... looking for him."

"And Scriabin is driving it away?"

"That's what Shmee says."

_Lying bear._ "You don't think it'll come after you?"

"Nuh uh, Shmee says he'll protect me." A squeak. "I'm still scared though. I hope it doesn't rip my head off and eat my brains or something."

"When do you think Edgar will be home?"

"I dunno. He didn't tell me what he went to do."

"Where did he go?"

"I dunno. He didn't say."

"Did he leave a note?"

"No, he usually just goes. I think he's trying to get away, but he can't. It's all inside."

"Yeah, I know." Pause. "But he's been taking care of you alright?"

"Uh huh. It's way better than home. They both listen to my stories sometimes, and Mr. Edgar put a picture of mine in the fridge."

"That's good. I hope you don't get abducted by aliens, Squee."

"Um... thanks, scary neighbor man."

"Could you tell him that I called when he comes home?"

"Okay." A change in tone like he turned away from the phone. "No, Shmee, I'm not going to set the couch on fire! Mr. Edgar said he doesn't like that and I want to be nice." A moment. "Well, I guess that'd be okay."

"What'd be okay?"

"Shmee says to see if there's an ax in the closet. I'll tell Mr. Edgar you called, okay?"

"Okay."

"Oh, I just thought of something! I think maybe Mr. Edgar went to see Ms. Devi."

"What?"

"Yeah, he talks to Ms. Devi a lot." Smiling. "They're real good friends. She's nice."

"...I've got to go."

"Okay." A bit confused. "Bye."

He hung up.

\---

One time, his phone rang.

Someone was calling him. But he ignored it.

\---

"Are you sorry about any of this? That any of this happened? Are you sorry about any of it?"

"...I'm sorry I didn't kill you when I had the chance."

"That's funny, somehow that doesn't make me feel any better."

\---

"Maybe there is a way out of this... I don't know, but maybe... maybe there's something I can do."

"Like what?"

"I don't know, that's the problem... she said she was able to sort of make it stop, in a way... but I don't think that'll work this time. There's nothing... nothing physical to fight. I can't see anything... I don't know what I can do. But if there's something, then I should try, right?"

"...You mean Devi."

"Huh?"

"You were talking to Devi."

"Uh... yes, I was. Why?"

"I didn't know you'd met her."

"Yeah, we... had some things in common. I thought maybe we could help each other, you know?"

"Why, did something happen to her?" Sharply changing his tone. "Is something wrong?"

"No, no, she's fine. There's nothing wrong, so don't worry." Quickly. "She can take care of herself, don't worry. Nothing's wrong."

"So... what does she 'help' you with?"

"Well... she's one of the few people that met you and didn't die."

"What about Squee?"

"Him, too. But Devi's different, she's..."

"I liked her."

"Yeah, there's that."

"And she liked me... didn't she?"

"I don't think that really matters now, does it?"

"...Edgar?"

"You can't keep asking who I am every time I say something you don't like, you know. That doesn't really say a lot about our friendship if I can't disagree with you."

"How can you do this? How can you imitate him so perfectly?"

Sigh. "You don't really know us at all, do you?"

\---

"Edgar?"

A high pitched screeching sound. It didn't stop until he hung up.

\---

"Have you ever thought about _why_ Scriabin would try to talk to you?"

\---

"Edgar?"

"It didn't work."

"What didn't work?"

A gasp, things clattering to the floor, maybe pens, and he hung up.

\---

"Why did you hang up on me?"

"I didn't-"

"Why would you do that?" Frantic. "Why would you hang up on me?"

"I didn't, you hung up on me first-"

"Why would you hang up on me?" Screaming. "Why would you do that to me?!"

"Edgar, I-"

Click.

\---

"Why can't you leave him alone? You're ruining everything-"

"I'm the only one who's doing anything to help!" Angry and slurred. "You just sit on your ass begging him to tell you everything's okay, I'm the one who's actually fighting for him! I'm the one who's suffering to try and keep his stupid ass alive! Shit, at this point, I'm the only one who even wants him to _stay_ alive! You definitely don't give a shit do you, you'd probably be happier if I just gave up-"

"Stop doing this-"

"Well fuck you, I'm not going to give up! I'm not going down without a fight! Fuck you and anyone who thinks they can stop me! If it weren't for me you'd all be dead!"

"You parasites are all alike, manipulating him to think you're trying to help-"

"I can't think straight when he's screaming like that- fuck you, you don't even know what this is like! At least you got shot in the head first, that must have sped things up a bit."

"Put him back on-"

"Maybe I can't!" Hysterical, almost a scream, then silence. A low, rising laughter. "Maybe I can't."

"That's a lie."

"What are you going to do about it? Let me guess. Nothing. Am I right?" Slow and malicious.

"If it weren't for you, then everything-"

"If it weren't for me, Edgar probably would have never kept talking to you. I was the one who told him to keep talking to you, did you know that?"

"You're a liar."

"You wish I was lying. Shit, _I _wish I was lying. God, this is not helping my headache at all. If it weren't for you getting your dumb ass shot, this never would have happened to him. This never would have happened. I fucking blame you for this, Nny. I blame you for everything. I blame you for fucking- just-"

"I didn't think this would happen-"

"Oh that's great, now everything's all fixed now, isn't it? Nny didn't mean to ruin your life, sorry about the pickaxe to the forehead, now everything's all better-"

"You're so-"

"Just stop calling him already, just stop calling and leave me alone. I can't deal with you right now, I can't deal with any of this. I don't have the energy, I can't spare the energy to deal with this or deal with you, there's too much going on right now-"

"You worried about the 'monster' you told Squee about?"

"...What?"

"Squee told me you came up with some sort of story about how a 'monster' is after you or something. What, is the system upset with you for taking over your host rather than your toy?"

"...Oh _shit_."

He hung up.

\---

"Edgar?"

"Thank God, thank God someone called, just... just stay on the line, okay?" Whispered urgently. "Stay on the line, alright?"

"Why? What's going on?"

"The power's out." Short, quick breaths. "There's something here."

"What is it?"

"Something's waiting, I can hear- Just stay on the line, okay? Stay with me-"

Click.

\---

"Are you hurt?"

"Why would I be hurt?"

\---

"What if he's telling the truth?"

"You can't trust something like that. It's designed to manipulate you. It says exactly what you want to hear so you won't fight when the time comes. You can't listen to anything it says."

"He's suffering, I know he is... I can hear him sometimes, there are these dreams..."

"Edgar, it's doing it on purpose. It's trying to make you feel bad for it so you'll trust it. These things will do everything they can to serve their master. It's lying to you."

"He's lied to me before, but this time... your voices never suffered, did they?"

"Edgar..." Sigh. "Edgar, you and I... we're different. You... you actually..."

Pause.

"You... you kind of care about people, right?" Awkwardly. "So that's what it's using against you... it's trying to make you care about it so you'll trust it. That's your weakness."

"...You really think that about me?"

"Yeah." Hesitantly. "You're not like me. Otherwise I don't think we'd have gotten this far. You... you care about people, even if they're... broken."

"Nny..." Pause. "I... can't remember the last time you said something like that to me."

"I just wish... you hadn't ruined everything."

Pause.

Click.

\---

"You're absolutely sure you haven't been in my house?"

"No. Why?"

"It's just... things keep moving around, and I'm not doing it, and Scriabin and Todd say it's not them... it's just small things most of the time but... I don't remember touching anything..."

"Has anything else in your house started moving?"

"What?"

"Something else in the house started moving, like my Doughboys. You don't have any dolls in the house, do you?"

"...I have to go."

\---

"Why do you keep calling me?"

"I'm not calling for you."

"You can't separate us anymore. You know that. You know who we are."

"I know who you are, and who he is."

"You know that. You know what's happening to us. And you keep calling."

Silence.

"You keep calling us, Johnny. Why?"

"I..."

"If all we're going to do is hurt you, if all we're going to do is make things worse, if you can't have perfection with us anymore, then why do you keep calling me?"

"I..."

"Why do you keep calling me, Johnny?"

"I don't..."

"You told me what you planned to do. How you thought you'd just make things worse. And yet, you keep calling us. Even when we insult you, hurt you, you hang up and then you call again. Why?"

"Scriabin...?"

"Maybe your perfection isn't as important to you as you think. Maybe there's something else that keeps you calling." Cold. "But it's not going to matter when we're dead."

"You're not-"

"You're always too late."

He hung up.

\---

"Could you leave your house when it was happening to you?"

"I could always leave my house for a while. But I always came back."

"I can't leave... I keep trying but-"

"What do you mean?"

"I keep... I keep _looping_-"

Click.

\---

"That doesn't sound so bad really..."

"Nny, you're going to have to speak up, I can't hear you at all."

"I said, that doesn't sound like-"

"I'm sorry, just- could you repeat that, I didn't..."

"Do you think it's the phone line? It was working okay before..."

"God, it's like... you're not doing this on purpose, are you? I can't understand you."

"What- how can you not understand me?"

"Nny, please, just... stop it, okay? I can't deal with something like this right now, it's hard enough not being sure if this is another dream or not-"

"I'm not- I'm not doing anything, I'm just talking-"

"Nny, please stop, just... please, speak english, I can't... I can't understand you at all."

"I _am_ speaking english-"

"Nny, I'm serious, stop babbling like that, it's freaking me out-"

"I'm _not_ babbling, I'm _speaking english_-"

"Nny-"

Click.

\---

"Is this your noble effort? Is this all you can do? Is this the best you can do?"

"I don't know what you want from me! What do you want me to _do_?" Screamed back in response.

"How about you _actually care_ about him, you-"

"I've _always_ cared about him-"

"If you cared about him he wouldn't have a huge fucking scar on his right shoulder! How many is that now-"

"I did that _because_ I cared about him!"

"_What the hell is wrong with you_!?"

\---

"I hate him so much."

"You're not the only one."

\---

"Have you looked at the moon tonight?"

"The moon?"

"Yeah... have you looked at it? It's full. You can see all the stars and everything."

Pause.

"...I wanted to go there once."

"Go where?"

"Over them. Over the stars."

"I don't... understand what you mean."

"It just seems like things would be better there. It'd be quiet. Over. That was a long time ago... it still doesn't sound that bad."

"...Is that a...?"

"Have you looked at the moon tonight?"

"I... I can't."

"What?"

"I looked out the window and it's all black."

"What do you-"

"There's nothing out there. There's nothing there."

"There has to be something, it's not cloudy or anything-"

"There's nothing... nothing there, it's black, except for... the red-"

The line went dead.

\---

"Will you remember me when I'm gone?" Weakly.

"I'll try."

"You'll try..."

"I can remember the others still..."

"What will you remember about me?"

"...How you lied to me. Ruined it all..."

"Do you still have my coat?"

"What?"

"Do you remember? I gave you one of my coats a long time ago..."

"I..."

"Do you remember? Where is it?"

"I... I'm wearing it."

\---

"So she's standing outside the playground and she's watching these kids playing, and then there's this flash in the distance-"

"Hold on." Pause. "Did you hear that?"

"What?"

"Hold on for a second." Leaning away from the phone. "Hello?"

Pause.

Back to the phone. "I thought I heard something..."

"What was it?"

"I don't know, kind of like the door opening."

"Is it Squee?"

"It's like two AM, Nny, he's aslee- Hello?" Leaning away from the phone again. "Is someone there?"

Waiting.

"What was it?"

"It just... hmm." Back to the phone. "I could have sworn..."

"Did you lock the door?"

"I always lock the door-" Cut off. "Hello?" Leaning away again. "Hello? Who's there?"

Silence.

"Edgar?"

"Hmm... look, I'll call you back, okay? I'm just going to look around."

He didn't call him back.

\---

"Edgar?"

"Yes?" Hoarse and weak.

"Where have you been? I've been trying to call you for days-"

"I've been... right here." Shaking. "I've been here the whole time."

"Why didn't you pick up the phone?"

"I've been here the whole time..." Fading. "The whole time..."

"Edgar?"

"I've been here..." Whispering. "Here... here I've been here..."

"...Were you?"

"I don't know." In a very small voice before the line went dead.

\---

"I can't... I can't do this anymore... I can't..."

"You have to try, you can't give up."

"Why..."

"Did you... you can't give up until you did all those things you told me about. That list, all those things- making peace with your god and talking with everyone or whatever, you can't give up yet."

Pause.

Then Edgar began laughing. Not spiteful, not mocking, but completely honest if a bit breathless.

He couldn't remember the last time he heard Edgar really laugh.

"Oh my... oh my God, Nny, are you serious? Are you actually... I..." Pause for breath. "I took care of everything months ago. Two weeks after we split ways."

Silence from his end. Edgar was still laughing.

"You didn't... honestly, you didn't think I just sat around and did nothing, did you? Like, like you paused my life while you weren't in it? Like it froze until you came back?" Laughing too hard to speak, verging into hysterical now. "Oh my God... you did, didn't you? You actually did..."

He hung up.

\---

"Are you having fun yet?"

"No, why would-"

"I don't know why you keep calling me otherwise. What do you get out of this, Nny? What possible benefit could I be to you now?"

"It's not..."

"My only guess is that you think this is amusing somehow. Or maybe you call me because the fact that something else is controlling me now makes you want to do something."

"I never controlled you-"

"That's all you ever did, Nny. That's all you ever wanted. You were too much of a coward to ever have a relationship with anyone as an adult, so it always had to be on your terms. Everything had to go your way, everything has to end when you say it ends so you don't wind up hurt. All you ever wanted was to use me and control me and throw me away when you were done."

"That's not-"

"And now you can't. You can't do anything- no, I should be more specific. You _won't_ do anything. There's nothing you can do now. Something else is controlling me, and that just tears you up inside, doesn't it? Not that it's happening, but because _you're_ not doing it. It makes you _so angry_, doesn't it? So you keep calling and calling just so you can feel like you're doing something, like you still have some control over him-"

"That's not true, that's not what I wanted- this isn't what I wanted-"

"You'll never get what you want, Nny, because what you want is impossible for normal people and you're completely insane. You'll _never_ have a normal relationship with anyone. You can't. Your flawed little brain _ruins_ everything you touch."

"You fucker-"

"How much can you take? How much of the truth can you take before you stop calling and realize there's nothing here for you anymore? There's no illusion of friendship, no meek platitudes, no more lies, there's nothing here but the reality of what you did to him. What _your influence_ did to him. How much abuse will you take before you run away, like you always do?"

"I don't run away-"

"You always run away, and you always will run away, because you're a coward, Johnny. You're a coward, and the fact that my words are hurting you right now means more to you than the fact he tried to slit his wrists two nights ago, doesn't it?"

"He _what_-"

"Your pain is all that matters, and the fact that it hurts to call him will mean more to you than anything else. How much more can you take before you give up and stop? When will you run away again like you always do and abandon him because you can't deal with pain, you hypocrite, despite all the pain you've inflicted on others for no reason?"

"I had a reason-"

"Did you have the _right_? Why don't you ever come over here? Why don't you ever come see him in person? Why do you only call and call and call?"

"I-"

"Or is this all you can manage? Is this all the contact with the truth you can stand, a comfortable barrier between sight and sound? How much longer will you hold out? Or, how much longer will _he _hold out? Are you having fun yet?"

"This-" Choking. "This isn't what I wanted to happen- not to him-"

"You're only upset because he's not dying the way _you_ wanted him to. _Grow up_, Johnny."

And he hung up.

\---

"We're sorry, the number you're trying to reach has been disconnected. Please redial your number and try again."

\---

"We're sorry, the number you're trying to reach has been disconnected. Please redial your number and try again."

\---

"We're sorry, the number you're trying to reach-"

"We're sorry, the number you're trying to reach-"

"We're sorry, the number you're trying to reach-"

\---

"Edgar?"

"What?"

"What happened?"

"What are you talking about?"

"I tried to call you before, and I got... a message-"

"Oh God, what did it say? What did it say?"

"It was-"

"Please tell me it wasn't- Oh God, oh no-"

He hung up.

\---

"We're sorry, the number you're trying to reach has been disconnecBEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE"

\---

"Edgar?"

Someone breathing heavily.

"Edgar, is that you?"

Nothing.

"Squee?"

Nothing.

"Who is this?" Pause. "Scriabin?"

A faint gurgling sound.

He stayed on the line until the silence was suddenly cut by the shrill beeping of a phone off the hook.

\---

"Edgar?"

"Is that you, Nny?"

"Yeah. Are you alright?"

"I've just... I don't know if-"

The sound of a parade drowned out Edgar's words.

It didn't stop until he hung up.

\---

"May God have mercy on me..."

"If he did, you wouldn't be going through this."

"Please..."

\---

"It's like there's something- a feeling inside that I can't stop, it- it keeps growing and it won't stop, I keep shaking, I can't eat, I can't sleep, there's just- this sense of something- something coming, something growing, something... something I can't stop-"

"Is it him?"

"No, it's- it's everything, it keeps... I can't control anything anymore, I can't control myself or what I see or what's happening and things keep happening and- and I don't remember and it shouldn't be- it's like a nightmare and it won't stop, nothing I do works, it- nobody's listening- I can't breathe-"

"Calm down, you're panicking-"

"I can't do this, I can't do this-" Sobbing. "I can't- there's- nothing's real anymore-"

"That- that's why you were so important to me, do you remember? This is what it felt like-"

"I can't- even my feelings aren't mine aren't real aren't mine, can't remember, so much black time and nothing and- not alive anymore, not me anymore, nothing left, nothing touch-"

"Slow down, you're babbling-"

"Dreams and I can't tell if it's real or not, always the same, there it is and can't get away, says he'll stop it but it doesn't- what it does- says- feelings-"

"The monster...?"

"I just- I just want this to stop, I want to be me, I want- I want myself again but it won't- it's not stopping- choking- growing inside me, cancer-"

"_Breathe_, Edgar, you're-"

"He can't I can't no one can just let it end, let it be over, want something real just-" Voice degrading into hoarse gasps. "I didn't know how much it would hurt-"

"Not knowing what's real?"

"Everything, everything... God, who am I...?" A thud. "Who am I anymore?"

"You're Edgar Vargas..."

"Are you sure?"

Click.

\---

"What are you talking about?"

"It's so close, _so close_, but I-"

Click.

\---

"Don't give up. Don't give up-"

"Why? Why shouldn't I?"

Silence.

\---

"Will you remember me?"

"I'll remember Edgar."

Pause, then a choked sob. "Fuck you, that's all I have left-"

Click.

\---

"Edgar?"

Click.

Redial.

"Edgar?"

Click.

Redial.

"Edgar?"

Click.

Redial.

"Edgar?"

Click.

Redial.

"...Scriabin?"

\---

"You can't kill yourself, what about Squee? What'll happen to him?"

"Who?"

\---

"I can't do this anymore, I can't, I can't..."

"You can't give up, Edgar. You can't let it win."

"It's over... it's over, it's all over I can't... I can't..."

"You can, you can't give up."

"So tired... I just... I just want it all to _stop_..."

A heavy breath, then something heavy hitting the floor. A clatter like the phone hitting the wall.

"Edgar? Edgar, are you alright?"

Static.

"Edgar?"

Static.

The sound of a phone off its hook. Behind it, something faint and ululating he couldn't identify.

\---

"We're sorry, the number you have diiiiiiiiiiiaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaallleeeeeeeeedddd-"

\---

"I... I call you and I keep getting these strange sounds. I don't know what they are."

"I don't know what they are either."

Pause. "...You sound... better."

"Do I?"

"Calmer."

"Maybe a little."

"Did you figure out what to do? Do you have a plan?"

"You could say that."

"What is it?"

"...I think I'm going to go for a nice drive."

\---

Edgar did not pick up the phone again.


	28. Disappointment

There once was a man named Edgar Vargas. He lived by himself, except when he didn't.

Sometimes he lived by himself, and sometimes he kkzkxk It was mid-day, warm but not hot, he had lunch if he got hungry, and he had the entire day ahead of him, and if he wanted to spend it pouring sand on his foot then that was exactly what he would do, and who would stop him?

zkk They all lived together in a small apartment, or sometimes only he lived there, but most of the time they all lived there. They all needed a place to stay, shelter. They all worked together, or some of them worked together, or worked hard because the others needed him to, and that was how things worked and they lived, or some of them did.

kkxxxzk He felt safe, enclosed, protected. This whole area, this world was so uniquely under his control. All negatives and positives were controlled by him, to some extent, and it was a comfort to know. It was a choice, these false childhood memories were always a choice. He had had so few choices recently.

He was safe and warm and this was what he wanted, and this was what he had always wanted.

He dumped the sand over his foot again, let his thoughts wander. Scriabin wasn't here, although Edgar was sure he'd be along shortly. He liked it here too, he knew he did. Probably lurking somewhere with a squirt gun or something like that.

Something brushed across the back of his neck.

bkkkzck Things had gotten kind of strange for the man named Edgar Vargas lately. It was something he could handle, of course, or parts of him could handle, but they were strange nonetheless. Usually he was pretty good at telling reality from zxx and he caught a flash of the blue sky he had been familiar with before it turned completely black.

kxxzzzz Sometimes he saw things that didn't make any sense, things that did not add up. But that wasn't something he couldn't handle, that they couldn't handle. One of them always knew it wasn't real, one of them could tell the difference. He wasn't sure which one of them all the time but bzzk was black, solid lacquer black, and he looked back at his house and it shifted. The change was gradual in the same way that a television channel faded to static in bursts, still considered a gradual progression. His house stood there, same as always, hue slowly darkening and then there would be the onset of that static noise, some kind of rushing in his ears and the edges of the house blurred, sharpened, became somehow pixelated and shifted into something else entirely, then switched back to his house too fast to be seen and he had the strong impression that this was literally falling apart, being ripped apart KKKKZXKk he could always tell when things weren't real, when something wasn't really happening. One of them could.

Sometimes it was Edgar, but over time a lot of the time it wasn't his time anymore. It wasn't him.

Days blurred together, time passing, and things surely weren't getting worse, things weren't getting worse. He found that boy, that poor boy Todd and gave him a place to stay, and Todd knew what was happening. He knew what was real or not, and sometimes that was a real relief and other times it was gzzk Something rattled in the darkness, the clack of something hard against something smooth, the small shifting sound and a squeaking like a wheel that needed grease bzzzk and that was what really mattered. As long as that happened, then things would be okay.

It got hard to remember what mattered sometimes. Things were getting blurry, getting staticy, the lines between them both drawn thinner and thinner. Things were crossing over, they were crossing over thin lines and boundaries and they were increasingly becoming gyyyqagckkkz _You've given us a lot of trouble..._ The thing tilted its head at him, its eyes so unnaturally stretched and shaped and Edgar's hands and feet burned and it was hard to move. _We intend to return the favor..._

"Scriabin!" Edgar called, hoped that that might ward the thing off, and instead it set its spade down closer.

_We're very good at what we do._

Edgar turned and KZXXXKK

unimportant.

It wasn't the kind of thing that should have been unimportant, changeable. Permeable. That wasn't how reality worked. That wasn't how everything worked. The world worked in a very certain way and this wasn't it, and he asked Todd just to make sure and Todd confirmed it with him, told him that no he hadn't seen that, or heard that, or known that, or was that, and that maybe he was having some troubles, maybe he should get some sleep. Have some dreams. Have lots of dreams.

bzrt "Scriabin!" Where was he where was he WHERE WAS HE

_We have rightful claim to this place..._

"Scriabin! Scriabin!" He was always here, why hadn't he seen this yet? Why hadn't he done something?! kzkxxxkk

Dreams were good for you.

He lived in an apartment by himself. Most of the time. Sometimes he wasn't himself, and sometimes there was no Todd, and sometimes there were long stretches of nothing where he wasn't sure he was at all. That he blamed on Scriabin, of course, when he could piece things together enough to realize that time was missing. Either Scriabin liked his privacy or there was something different happening between them when they switched places, some inequality, some imbalance where Scriabin was always there but Edgar wasn't, sometimes he wasn't there, and Scriabin told him sometimes when he was angry and frightened that it was better that way, when Edgar wasn't there. Things were so much better when he wasn't there, when it was just Scriabin living his own amazing life properly and correctly, and he didn't see things like Edgar did, it was all his fault. It was always his fault.

zkkkxkkk "Scriabin!" Weak and strained and he couldn't find the power or time to give it more voice. "Scriabin, where are you?!"

Frantic and unable to think of anything, unable to find what had been so omnipresent for so long, he dug deep, tried to find him somewhere, somehow. He couldn't be gone. He was never gone. There was no way that now, that now he would have left him, when Edgar needed him the most. No, he wouldn't do that. Edgar had more faith in him than that. He had to be here, he had to be here somewhere, he had to

Edgar had to find him, had to tell him. Maybe he'd been hurt or put to sleep, or just wasn't hearing, he had to be here and he would tell Scriabin what was going on, and Scriabin would know what to do and he would fix it somehow, and the two of them would survive just like Scriabin always said they would. These were outsiders, invaders, and Edgar did not know what to do, how to stop them, how to fight but Scriabin did, he had to know, and if Edgar could just find him, if he could just find him everything would be okay he would fix everythiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnng

kzkxkkxx

He had a dream, at some point. He could no longer remember when it was. Time had no meaning anymore, no point, no purpose. He couldn't keep track of it anymore, not when he wasn't there half of the time, and there didn't seem to be much point either way. He had a dream. He remembered that much. And Scriabin, he wasn't sure

_Cages of bone or plastic from the walls, shiny and black, and Edgar saw something in the midst of the strange cacophony of lacquer and organic. Long, dark hair, and something against the wall, and beside it a computer monitor, held in place by clawing fingers that melded and merged with one another and the screen and the wall that held it in place._

_It had to be him._

_"Scriabin! Please!" he screamed and his throat burned for it, and the thing on the wall looked up._

if he remembered or not.

He didn't talk about it.

Maybe because he wasn't there.

Scriabin told him, he kept telling him that he was going to fix things. That he was going to take care of things. Not him, specifically, because Scriabin didn't care about him, but of them both. He had to take care of them both, because they were the same. To an extent. Taking care of one took care of the other. Scriabin would take care of it. Scriabin would find a way out of this, he knew what to do. Scriabin wasn't going to let this happen, wasn't going to let them die this way, wasn't going to let reality lie to them and trick them. He knew what was real, and what wasn't. Most of the time. Scriabin could do this, even if Edgar couldn't. Even if Edgar was going crazy, Scriabin wasn't. He told him that. He told him he would fix it.

_The skeleton of a man embedded in the wall and held by several of the long cords that whipped their way around the room, pulsing and breathing. Arms with little more than skin, a ribcage that bled unnaturally into the wall, hips pronounced and locked into place, a thick cord leading directly into his throat as if to grant him speech. Scriabin. Or at least, some kind of facsimile of him. Perched on the same large nose of Edgar's was a pair of glasses that matched Edgar's perfectly, clear and cracked, and through them Edgar could see that there were no eyes to be hidden. Gaping holes where they should have been, and behind and through those holes Edgar saw constant flickers of light, green and white._

_The monitor entrapped beside this skeletal form of Scriabin had a constant stream of letters across its surface, scrolling down endlessly in variants of cream and green on black._

He wasn't there. He didn't know. While fighting with Scriabin daily was something that he couldn't avoid, something that came naturally to them without thinking, the subject of their fights was more controllable, and Scriabin did not want to talk about the dream. What happened. Where he was. He did not want to talk about it. Subsequently Edgar didn't bring it up. He'd proved that he could hurt him in several ways, after all. Scriabin had come home at night more than once after abusing their mutual home in dangerous ways, sometimes just to prove that he could. Edgar didn't want to make this worse. Could this get worse?

Sometimes he lived in an apartment by himself, and sometimes he didn't. Either way his home was never his.

Sometimes there were things there that weren't anyone.

_"Edgar..." the skeleton of Scriabin said in a voice that matched Edgar's perfectly. "I'm n-n-n-n ah kg kg kg." Spasms, the sharpening and blurring and that strange effect of pixelation so impossible. The rush of static again. "Zzkr Edgar, not not h-h-hegh-hegh-heghre."_

_Edgar stared at it for a few seconds, trying to process what it had just said. "You're not here?"_

_"Kzzk." The head jerked back and the tube connected to its throat undulated. "Kzzk, not h-here kzzk not s-speak-eak-eak."_

_"How can you not be here?!" Edgar shouted, and he turned to the computer monitor in hopes that would give him some answers._

_ceedwithpreviousprogramcontinuewithoriginalpl_  
anmustcontinuedamageassessmentpreparefor  
recoveryperiodprepareforhostpriorityoverridemu  
stpriorityoverridemuststayonpresentcoursecan  
notaccomplishpriorityerrorerrrorerrorhostisinviol 

He didn't know what to do about those.

Edgar couldn't tell when he'd actually done anything. If he'd done anything, sometimes, but most of the time when. When did he go out? When did he get that phone call? Who called him and why? Where was he for the past few days? When things moved, was it a dream, or had someone moved them? Had he moved them? When?

When had he seen that thing slithering through the hallway?

Without a solid sense of time, it was difficult to put anything in any kind of logical order. Nny called him, sometimes frequently and sometimes almost never, and Scriabin hated him for it. Hated Nny for calling and Edgar for being called, and things always seemed to fall apart more quickly while he was speaking to him. Talking to him made unreal things more real, the strangeness of things more apparent. Had he been more lucid, able to think more clearly, it might have seemed ironic in a way, that each phone call with Nny seemed to indicate his mental state descending one more notch down into total insanity. Scriabin always told him that would happen.

Nny was trying to help him, although he didn't do a very good job. Sometimes Edgar was aware enough to know that he was trying - that his clumsy attempts at empathy, so foreign to him, meant he was trying to help. Other times it was not obvious and it just hurt him, and he snapped back at him, and Scriabin applauded him for it each time. Sometimes Scriabin took over that part for him, and he was too tired to fight him very hard for it.

kkkxkkzk "You're Scriabin, aren't you? You have to be- why won't you help me? Why aren't you helping me? Please!"

The body in the wall spasmed, but said nothing further, and the computer monitor continued its neverending loop of commands and data, all filed away.

_Ah, I see you've found your little friend. He can watch._

BZZK

There were so few people in his life. He wasn't sure how often they were actually there.

Sometimes Todd was there. Sometimes his bear was there, Shmee, who Scriabin did not seem to like. Sometimes Scriabin would be mumbling to himself about something and he'd catch the bear's name, and Edgar would ask him and Scriabin would tell him it was none of his business. There was something there, something important, but his ability to tell what it was had eroded over the long days. It was hard enough trying to keep track of when he was awake, and Scriabin's patience for questions had grown very short. His anger was palpable, frequent, foreign at times, and he didn't seem to notice. To care, to question it. To think about what it meant, and Edgar brought that up to him once. Once.

There was Devi, sometimes. Edgar talked to her because Scriabin didn't harrass him for it, and in fact almost encouraged him to spend more time with her; it was an easy enough way to keep him happy. Scriabin was becoming more and more unpredictable and volatile, unwillingly mirroring the chaos of the shifting reality around him, and anything that calmed either down was precious. Anything that made it stop Edgar clung on to, even as it burnt his hands. Scriabin had very few outlets for his anger, and he was so tired of hurting. Tired of screaming, of yelling, of fighting. The endless stress, buzzing and insistent over his thoughts, jumbling them, making it impossible to focus, to think, to do anything, and Scriabin yelled at him for that too, and he was so desperate for anything that'd make it stop, make it all stop. Edgar didn't need any more stress in his life.

kzzkczzx "What are you? What are you talking about?" He had no voice anymore, but he was sure it would hear him anyway.

"WE'RE HERE TO TEACH YOU NOT TO RESIST. TO MAKE THIS CLEAR, WE WILL SHOW YOU THE ALTERNATIVE. YOU WANTED TO FIGHT LAST TIME. YOU WON'T AFTERWARD."

"I... I didn't, I-" Tried for those few seconds to sound threatening. "You don't belong here, _he_ does-" zkkzxxx

He didn't need any more stress in his life.

He spoke to Devi over the phone, talked about what was happening, what Scriabin was doing, what he wanted, his plans, what had happened with her voice, how she'd taken care of it, what she'd done to stop it, and Scriabin seemed oddly conflicted about the resolution to that story.

He unnecessarily told him not to get any ideas. Edgar knew it was too late now anyway.

She suggested things to him that he could do, ways he could try to keep track, confirmed things to try and comfort him but often just made him feel all the more anxious when they didn't match up with what he thought happened. Sometimes Scriabin would report back to him later with things she had supposedly said, but he could never remember any of the conversations Scriabin had had with her, and his stories were inconsistent.

He lost so much time lately, some of it like it had been conspicuously edited. He asked Scriabin about it, and he told him he had nothing to do with it, and Edgar wondered why he even bothered, it wasn't like Scriabin ever gave him a straight answer about anything anyway.

He talked to Devi but didn't see her too much otherwise. Sometimes things would start getting bad and he'd scare her, a little, or she just didn't want to deal with him or Scriabin. He could understand that. Things were getting difficult for him in so many ways and Scriabin told him that that'd affect him. Todd told him that sometimes. It was hard to tell what was real and what wasn't, and sometimes it made him behave inappropriately. Devi understood that that wasn't necessarily under his control, but she still wasn't too enthused to spend time with him when things were really bad.

Besides, she liked to spend time by herself, she had things to do, and he could understand that. That made sense. But talking with her was calming, at least.

Something was.

He lived by himself, sometimes, and sometimes not. Nny called him, too much, and Scriabin hated him for it. Things happened at night, or at least he thought they did. Sleep was dangerous but ultimately unavoidable, no matter what Scriabin did.

Some things were just unavoidable.

In a whirling mass of broken time and days and thoughts, trying to find a path through the remnants of what he knew was real, a thought occurred to him that wouldn't be shaken. To him or Scriabin, it didn't matter. They should go somewhere. A place. Some other place, in the car, and stay there, and see. That helped Johnny that one time, didn't it? He couldn't remember anymore. All of it was whirled together into a nonsensical mass of regrets and pain and unreal spikes of what was that

He wanted to stay home and watch TV.

Scriabin wanted to go for a drive.

He wanted to stay home.

In the end, it didn't matter what he wanted.

\---

Consciousness came back to him very, very slowly.

He was lying on something hard, and something was on top of him. After an exorbitant amount of effort, he opened his eyes and then shut them almost immediately again. The light was blinding... had he fallen asleep? After all this time had he finally managed to fall asleep again?

...What was the last thing that had happened to him anyway?

Edgar lay there with his eyes closed as he tried to sort it out. He thought back, expecting the same kind of buzzing, furious tension over his thoughts as usual, the constant overlay of static and noise that made everything indistinct, the unexplained gaps and holes that shifted when he didn't pay attention, the hideous, grinding uncertainty about what was _real_, and instead he found his thoughts... clear. Memories in place. Sentences completing, trains of thought leading to actual conclusions, clean logic, emotions under control. No interruptions. No _noise_. Thinking was... easy. He'd forgotten this was what it was like, what it _should_ have been like.

How long had it been since he could think clearly?

The clarity was sudden, unfamiliar, almost unpleasant. Like when he changed the prescription on his glasses, and his vision became _too_ clear for those first few days. He wasn't used to being able to think like this, to be able to finish his thoughts, to not have that stress screaming over him, demanding his attention, wanting answers he couldn't give for what was happening and what he'd seen. He tried to remember what he'd done before waking up here, tentatively thinking back, and he couldn't quite get a clear image. Even with this new blissful silence, he knew his memory had not been the best lately. It was still hard to know what was real or not, the things he'd been seeing all seemed so completely real in spite of their impossibility, and Scriabin hadn't really helped him in that department. He saw them too, after all, even though he tried to deny it, even when he raged at them impotently like that could fix it, screamed at Edgar to stop like it was his fault. Scriabin tended to promote whatever reality he wanted as the real one, and in their decaying state he didn't have much defense against that. And it wasn't like he could trust him after...

_Scriabin?_

He didn't hear anything. He hadn't noticed at first, so stunned was he at the concept of mental silence after months of nonstop cacophonous noise, that Scriabin hadn't said anything. He hadn't expressed wonderment, hadn't acknowledged the change, hadn't said a word, hadn't even made a sound indicating he was awake. Perfectly quiet. That wasn't normal, and he told himself that maybe Scriabin was just asleep somewhere, or whatever approximated for sleep for him.

Edgar hadn't done it in ages - there generally hadn't been a need with how closely their lives and feelings and memories had intertwined in their last days, with how poor Scriabin had become at hiding his constant, often unjustified rage - but he took a deep breath (and it ached) and he reached inside himself as he had before, trying to find him. Searching for traces of his emotions, his presence, his _self_, and while Scriabin could hide from him if he wanted to, there was still a sound to it. A sort of presence; evidence that he was _there_, even if he wasn't acknowledging him. The feeling that he _knew_ Scriabin was there somewhere, when he looked, and this time... he dug into himself, through clear thoughts now that should have made things easier, and there was nothing. There was no sound, no feelings, no other presence, no other person, no Scriabin. Nothing.

This didn't happen. This never happened, something had to be wrong, and he felt a stab of adrenaline go through him, his mouth drying. Where was he? Scriabin couldn't-... well no, he'd found out rather unpleasantly that Scriabin could leave him, in a fashion, even though he'd only done it once, but even when he'd done that, when he'd gone wherever it was, he'd left _some_thing of himself behind. He left evidence of his presence, a reminder, a remainder. He couldn't separate from Edgar entirely. He _couldn't_, and he was there. He was always, always there, somewhere. Even when it was just the barest bones of him, he was _there_. But now, he didn't feel anything. Not the slightest hint, the faintest noise, the smallest indication that he was still with him. Scriabin couldn't leave him like this, he wouldn't, otherwise he would have done so long ago, he'd told him that. He _couldn't_ leave him. He never left entirely. After Scriabin took root, he'd always been there, listening, _existing_.

Except...

The realization came to him suddenly, the memory crystal clear.

Scriabin had vanished completely once before.

When he had died.

That thought was enough to spur him to motion. Edgar opened his eyes, blinking against blinding whiteness, and he tried to sit up, figure out where he was and what was happening. Whatever it was that was pinning him down was sprawled across his chest and stomach, and it took him a few tries to prop himself up on his elbows to get a good look.

A thin, lanky man with long, unkempt dark hair and reflective glasses. He looked much smaller without his coat.

"Scriabin...?" Hopefully Scriabin didn't feel the flooding surge of relief when he saw him. It may have been because if Scriabin was here, that meant he wasn't dead, but that moment where he wasn't there, where he was just _gone_ without warning... he'd imagined it at times, spitefully maybe, but he hadn't been prepared for how _empty_ he felt. Alone. Again he hoped that Scriabin hadn't heard any of that... he was sure he would have a field day with it, and he really wasn't in the mood to fight with him right now. Not that that often mattered.

Edgar tried to focus on their current situation rather than his somewhat embarassing emotions. If Scriabin was here, then that meant he couldn't be dead. When he'd died before, Scriabin had been distinctly gone for the entire ordeal, only returning to him afterwards when he was alive again. The most logical explanation would be that this was a dream then, as that was the only place where Scriabin could manifest a physical body like this. A look at his surroundings seemed to confirm his hypothesis... white below and above and all around him, just like most of the other dreams they shared together.

Why his thoughts were so clear, however, didn't have quite as simple an explanation, and he was equally at a loss as to why Scriabin was not wearing his coat. Scriabin never took off that coat, especially if he was an adult. There had to be a reason, and he had a feeling that he wasn't going to like it, whatever it was. He couldn't shake this feeling of foreboding. Even in dreams, there was some connection between the two of them. _Some_thing. The line between them as it was remained worryingly dead.

"Scriabin, what's going on?" Maybe Scriabin had some elaborate lecture planned for him, although again, he'd never delivered one without his coat...

Scriabin groaned, long and pained, and he moved slowly. It took what felt like ages for him to push himself up on his arms, muscles quaking, and he shook his head and hissed through bared teeth, wincing... had he ever seen Scriabin with a headache? Still, a strange, unfamiliar distance lay between them.

Scriabin moved enough so that Edgar could sit up properly, and he noticed for the first time something dangling from his neck, what looked like a quartz crystal on a red string. Where, or when, had he gotten that? Scriabin pressed a trembling hand to his forehead. "Ugh, my head..."

Edgar kept reaching out, trying to feel him, trying to find him subconsciously, reopen their lines of communication because he just wasn't used to this _silence_. Still nothing, and he looked around like the blank whiteness around him would give him answers. "What happened? Are we asleep? What are you doing?" An explanation would be great right now, even if it was just that Scriabin wanted to verbally tear him apart for the rest of the night. At least he'd know. This nagging doubt was rapidly dissolving into an unpleasant cold fear.

"What are you talking about..." Sleepy and mildly annoyed, like he'd just woken up, and he ran a hand through his hair. Edgar didn't have much time to give the gesture much thought as Scriabin sat back, took a deep breath, rubbed his hand over his face to try and wake himself up further, then froze.

It was hard to say with his eyes hidden like that, but Edgar guessed he'd gotten his first look at where they were. That reaction was not encouraging.

"Oh shit," Scriabin said quietly. That was even worse.

"What's going on?" Edgar said, trying very hard not to let his growing anxiety over the situation show in his voice, then after a few more moments of thought... "What did you do?"

"I didn't do anything." Scriabin didn't sound as defensive as he normally might have, and everything was adding up in a way that Edgar did not like. He resolved firmly not to freak out about this, that was probably what Scriabin wanted him to do or something. This had to be some plot of Scriabin's, some thing or another he had planned that hadn't turned out right, but whatever it was, it was fixable. Under control. That he had to be sure of, because otherwise...

Scriabin sat back, brushed his hair away from his eyes, and he looked around them, at the blank world surrounding them slowly, like he was studying it. Like it was unfamiliar, like he didn't know what was going on, and Edgar could feel his heartbeat picking up in spite of his best efforts. "I didn't... I didn't do anything." Quieter than usual for him.

"Then where are we?" Edgar didn't want to hear any other possibilities. "This is your world, isn't it?"

"What?"

"If you're here and I can see you, I must be dreaming," Edgar pointed out, pleased at how calmly he'd said it. Simple, easy, logical. Where else could they be? What else could this mean? Nothing, there was nothing else this could mean. They had to be in that weird white dreamspace, because... "What are you trying to do this time?"

"I didn't... do anything. I'm not trying to do anything. I don't know what happened..." Faintly, like he was distracted. He glanced back at him for a moment. "What's the last thing you remember?"

"You're asking _me_?" Which meant that Scriabin didn't know, and that was not good. That couldn't be what was happening. He had to salvage this, put it back on recognizable ground. "_You're_ the one who decided to take me over for the fiftieth time this week. God forbid you tell me what you do when you do that." That was an easy and perfectly reasonable explanation for why Edgar couldn't remember how he'd gotten here.

"That's right, I did do that..." That wasn't the reaction he'd been expecting. A sarcastic comment, a condescending smirk, a dismissive wave of the hand, those things were familiar, he knew what those things meant. Scriabin seemed to be talking to himself, softly, like Edgar had simply reminded him of something he'd forgotten, like there was something more important he was thinking about. "I think Johnny called..." He shook his head back and forth slowly. "I..."

How could he not remember? If Scriabin was in charge of his body, there was no telling what he could have done to get them in this mess. Wherever they were. He wasn't sure how they got here or how his control would have led them here, but he _had_ to be responsible somehow. It was the only thing that made sense. "What did you do?" More accusatory now. _Give me an explanation!_

"I didn't do anything-"

"If by 'didn't do anything' you mean 'plowed your car into a lamp post and killed yourself instantly', then yes, you didn't do anything." A sharp, curt female voice from behind them. "And yes, you are dead."

Edgar was almost too startled by the sudden foreign voice to pay attention to what it was that she said, but Scriabin didn't seem nearly so lost. He stiffened at the sound and even before she'd finished speaking, he'd pressed his hands to his forehead, tangled his fingers in his hair. He shook his head back and forth, shouting angrily at no one in particular.

"Shit shit SHIT, I felt it coming but I thought- I was trying to pull over-"

Now there was time for it to sink in, and absurdly his primary concern was that that would explain why he couldn't hear Scriabin anymore, why their connection was gone, why his mind was so silent now.

Although, back then, he'd died and ended up in the afterlife alone, and this time... this time...

"You _killed us_?!" Edgar shouted at him, trying for furious but instead getting incredulous and indignant, and Scriabin lowered his head further, still shaking it back and forth like that would make this stop being true.

"It wasn't my fault!"

Someone snapped their fingers. "Over here please, thank you."

The two turned around. A woman with long, curly auburn hair in an untamed mess down her back and piercing blue eyes stood behind them. She was wearing a lab coat and a severe, unamused expression that made Edgar feel uncomfortable, like he'd done something wrong. She certainly didn't look the least bit pleased by any of this, and she was definitely not happy.

"Yes, you two are dead. As I mentioned, you crashed your car and died instantly." In the same short, irritated tone.

The ramifications of it all sinking deeper now, going beyond numb minutiae into frantic desperation, disbelief. This couldn't be real. This couldn't be real, this couldn't have happened, he couldn't have- this couldn't- of all the things-

"I can't believe you-" Edgar buried his face in his hands, shaking and struggling to find words. "I can't believe you did this, Scriabin, I can't believe you did this-" _I can't believe this is happening, this can't be real, this can't be real_

"It wasn't my fault!" Scriabin shouted back at him, and he could feel anger and fear radiating off him, wild emotion as he clenched his fists. "I was in control! It was _their_ fault," and his words came quicker, "they were doing that thing, you know, where everything gets black and heavy and you have to stop because something's coming-"

Edgar hadn't experienced "that thing". Scriabin had though, or so he had told him. Given the current situation Edgar wasn't going to give him the benefit of the doubt. Fear, regret, denial, and a voice begging in the back of his mind in an endless litany for this not to be true, for this to be a dream. It hadn't even been his _fault_.

"God, you've killed us, we're dead _again_, I can't believe you did this!" Lashing out at Scriabin only made sense. This was his fault, he did something reckless and stupid like he usually did when he took over his body, he was probably drunk, for Christ's sake- "I can't believe this, I can't believe this! How could you do something like this? How could you _do_ this?! We got a second chance and you _fucked it up_, oh God-"

"I didn't do anything! " Scriabin mirrored him, emotions running just as high because he felt unfairly accused, and it was so easy for the two of them to feed off of each other, to escalate. He was still shouting, struggling to explain. "It was that _goddamn_ thing, that thing in your dream, it was trying to- I had to fight it or else-"

"Why?!" Edgar turned to look at him, stricken, his voice cracking. "Why did you do this to us?!"

"It wasn't- I wouldn't! I wouldn't- you think I _want_ to die? You think I'd do something like this on _purpose_?"

"Are you two done?" the woman said. Edgar had almost forgotten she was there in the midst of it. They looked back to her, puzzled that she'd interrupted them, too much so to think about it at first. "This is extremely irrelevant."

While Scriabin's brow furrowed, frowning at her, anger clearly building, Edgar struggled to find some logical thing to hold on to, some thread to explain this, something other than just getting lost in the despair and fear of what faced him now. What this really meant for him.

"Who are you?" Edgar asked sharply. Something about her was making him nervous, anxious...

She ignored him and instead made a note on her clipboard. "You were intended to die months ago. And according to this, this isn't the first time you've managed to avoid your intended death, either. You have an irritating talent for it, Mr. Vargas."

"This is _your_ fault-" Scriabin hissed at her, and Edgar held out an arm between them. He wasn't sure if Scriabin would actually attack her or not. "_You_ did this-"

"Who are you?" Edgar cut him off firmly.

"I'm a representative. Call me K, if you must." She clicked her pen. "Hopefully this will be settled before it comes to that."

That sounded ominous, and yet something about her phrasing stuck out to him. "Comes to what, names?" A tinge of sarcasm worked its way in there that he hadn't intended. Scriabin looked at him.

"We don't have much use for them. K is just what works best for now." Staring at her clipboard, but the irritation in her voice made it clear that she did not appreciate Edgar's questions. "I'd like to keep idle chitchat to a minimum, thank you."

A representative for _what_, exactly? And why? There was a heavy sinking feeling in his stomach.

Another pause. K seemed busy with her clipboard, and apparently wasn't going to start talking unless prompted.

"Alright then..." Edgar nearly asked 'what happened' before he remembered that he already knew. Scriabin had killed them. Scriabin killed them _both_. After all the time he spent torturing Edgar about it, about how Nny was dangerous, about how he should take his feelings into consideration, how important it was to remember he was two people in one body, after all of that, it was Scriabin who had been the one who had killed them. Scriabin had done it, no doubt in one of his wild, irresponsible moods, and now they were dead. They were _dead_ because of _him_. In a way, it was a shame that he wasn't in the right place to appreciate the irony of all this.

"What's going on? This isn't Heaven or Hell."

Almost automatically, although without his normal venom. "They don't exist."

"Quiet." Distracted, and he didn't look away from her. "Why am I back here again? In... nowhere?"

"You died," K said.

"But...I thought a waste lock couldn't die-"

"Let's just say that there have been some complications," she said, and her voice made it perfectly clear how little she cared for said complications or any of the people involved in them. She gave Scriabin a pointed look.

"What... him?" Edgar looked back at Scriabin, who looked likewise puzzled by her sudden attention.

It took a moment for his confidence to return. "Fuck you- if you hadn't been trying to fuck with us this never would have happened-"

"Why here?" Edgar cut him off, sure that Scriabin would just make whatever the situation was worse. He needed to stay focused. "Why not Heaven or Hell?"

"These things shouldn't take place in Their jurisdiction, that's why," she spoke to Edgar like he was an idiot. He felt vaguely offended at her tone. How was he supposed to know? "This is neutral territory. That's going to be important in a moment."

"Why?"

"They're not happy about how this has been handled."

"No, I would say we're not." A new voice, and Edgar turned to look to see its source. An overweight man with white hair and a beard had appeared nearby, and he was also wearing a lab coat. Apparently they were standard issue here for... whoever it was these people represented. He was wearing spectacles and had an expression of tired irritation, and Edgar got the general impression that the two people knew each other. "And we're not the only ones displeased, by the way."

That sinking feeling hadn't left him, and now it was getting worse. Even though he hadn't been responsible, even though Scriabin had been the one to kill them both this time, even though responsibility lay firmly on Scriabin's shoulders, Edgar couldn't help but feel that _he_ had done something wrong and he was going to pay for it, one way or another. Whether or not it was Scriabin's doing, it was going to be Edgar's fault. It was always his fault.

It was an unpleasant apprehension and anxiety he was familiar with, and it wasn’t helping in his attempt to stay calm. He struggled to remain focused, to try and keep his breathing in check, to act like nothing was wrong, to be an adult and handle things like an adult.

There was no way this would end well for him.

Scriabin said something under his breath, low and serious and he couldn't quite catch what it was, and Edgar felt him grab onto the hem of his shirt. Did he feel the same way? The line between them was still cut, he couldn't reach out and see for himself... it was disorienting, being detached from him like this, and no doubt Scriabin probably felt equally lost. Probably more so, considering how much closer Scriabin was to Edgar's emotions and thoughts most of the time.

Why were they apart here?

"Who are you?" Edgar asked the man. Maybe he'd be more forthcoming than his compatriot, although he doubted it. They both shared a level of general dislike that seemed directed at him.

"As with K, call me D." The man gestured to himself, almost rolling his eyes at the apparent idea of names, then put his hands in his pockets. "We represent different... organizations."

"Systems."

"Yes, you could call it that."

"There's been a conflict of interests," K hissed, and she glared at D who didn't seem intimidated by her anger. Not that he seemed to be in a better mood in general. "_Another_ one."

"Only you would call it that." D let out a long-suffering sigh. "If you'd just stayed out of the way and let us do our business, then this wouldn't have happened."

"Why should we have stayed out of your way when _we were there first_? We were _there_. You _knew_ that. You know the rules. You had no right to try and take him from us, and you know it. And now you've gotten him killed of all things; do you realize the mess you've made of this entire business?"

Edgar looked between the two of them; K animated and gesturing with her clipboard and pen, anger clearer on her face, and D staring at her with tired boredom, his eye occasionally twitching.

He should at least know what it was he'd done.

"Excuse me..." Edgar said, hesitantly, and he raised a hand. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh please, you don't want us to explain the entire thing to you, do you? How tedious." K rolled her eyes. "You're not entitled to an explanation. Just sit there and shut up."

He forced himself to keep speaking, to try and keep his voice courteous. If these two did represent forces greater than God Himself, and he suspected that was the case, then he probably shouldn't make them any angrier with him than they already were. He wanted to know, he felt that he was entitled to know _some_thing, but that didn't mean he couldn't be careful. "I'm just curious. This does involve me, after all..."

"It involves you, but you're not significant. You're more like territory that's being disputed at the moment. In fact, that's exactly what this is." K was sounding more annoyed by the minute.

"If he'd been significant, none of this would have happened in the first place." D rolled his eyes.

"Well he's significant now because you killed him in a stupid, stupid way. I can't believe you couldn't let this go! This is all your fault!" K snapped, waving one arm. D just sighed, which apparently only provoked K further. "You decided that our claim was not legitimate, and now look at where we are. Look at what we have to deal with." She gestured to Edgar with a touch of disgust.

He thought back to his conversations with Devi, his suspicions with Nny, the things Scriabin had told him, and it was starting to come together. He swallowed and pointed to K. He hoped he wouldn't make this worse. "You... you're not from the lock system, are you?"

She clicked her pen and frowned at him, but she didn't deny it. He thought back, his hand to his mouth. He'd thought, he'd suspected that Scriabin was different, that he wasn't the same as the other voices that Johnny had had, or even Devi had had, he'd suspected but he'd never had any real proof, and Scriabin had lied to him about so much for so many reasons that he wasn't sure if he could believe it simply _because_ Scriabin had suggested it, and now...

"So... there were two systems involved..."

Scriabin had stayed silent behind him throughout the conversation. Now, however, something had moved him to speak, and he probably shouldn't have been surprised at what it was.

"You see? I told you," Scriabin said quietly, without his normal gloating tone but still, he knew that was the sentiment he intended. "I told you but you never listen-"

Now, right now Scriabin wanted to bring this up? Scriabin wanted to score points on him for reasonably doubting his claims? _Now?_ Like he'd never done anything wrong, like he'd never done anything wrong and it was his fault that they were _dead_-

"I never listen to you because you're a compulsive liar!" Why did Scriabin never get this? How stupid did he think Edgar was?

Scriabin whirled on him and leapt into it. "It's not _compulsive_-"

"You lie about everything- you lie about things for no reason! You lied about how much milk we had left in the fridge this morning! Why would someone even do that?"

"Because I knew you'd just bitch at me about it, that's why!" Scriabin leaned away from him, holding out his arms. "I don't know if you've noticed, Edgar, but you've gotten a bit hard to live with lately-"

"Me? ME?!"

"You," K said, and again, their conversation quickly died despite its intensity. She was pointing at Scriabin. "Stand up."

It was the first time she'd addressed Scriabin instead of Edgar, and he wasn't sure how he felt about that. Scriabin apparently seemed equally nonplussed, staring at her for a few moments before settling back into his customary glare. Defying her. Edgar still didn't know anything about who she represented, or what powers she could have had, but something told him that making her angrier was not a good idea. Scriabin's rebellious streak could cost them here, not that he hadn't already cost them their _lives_.

Edgar sighed and pushed him. Scriabin whipped around to face him, affronted and surprised.

"Stand up, for God's sake." _What do you think she's going to do? You're not scared, are you?_

He forgot that Scriabin couldn't hear his thoughts now, and the silence at his question instead of confident posturing somehow made him feel bad for asking it.

Grumbling theatrically and making it as clear as possible that he was doing this under protest, Scriabin eventually stood. He crossed his arms and frowned at K in what was, without his coat, more of a petulant fashion than anything else. In a way Edgar was somewhat impressed with his audacity; then again, it was possible that Scriabin actually knew what was going on and just hadn't told him. As usual. Maybe he knew exactly who these people were and what they wanted and what he'd done, and as usual, he wasn't sorry about it. That sounded like him.

K took a few steps forward towards him, and Edgar felt his body tense, his heartbeat spike as she approached. In a quick, sudden movement, K flung out one hand to gesture at him. Despite the foot or so between her hand and his body, Scriabin actually flinched away from her for a moment before catching himself. Huh. "You see? Look at this, this is _our work_. You _can't interfere_ with our work! You _know_ that. It invalidates the entire pact between all of us if you do something like this! He wasn't even _done_-"

"He should have been ours to begin with." D pointed at Edgar, and the attention made him feel very uncomfortable. "And, by the way, your fragment wasn't even there when we decided on him. You can't claim ownership on him if you're not _there_."

"That is such a pathetic excuse. You know how this works. You know how our process works. You knew and you just took advantage of a loophole. Just because he was dead at the time-"

"I do know how your 'process' works, and if he was dead, then he was no longer yours."

"The entire thing _reset_! Were you not paying any attention at all?" She waved her clipboard, barely reining in her fury. D kept his bored expression, tired of the conversation but his eye kept twitching. "Universe resets, everything goes back to normal, and _he's put back into place-_"

"Are you following this?" Edgar stood up beside Scriabin, feeling awkward being the only one sitting and he felt better being close to him anyway. Scriabin gave him an unamused look.

D paid no attention to them. "Our claim to him is legitimate because you didn't have him when we made it-"

"Our claim predates yours, and we were already well underway when he died the first time, you can't say that that's not valid."

"It's not valid when he's dead-"

"He was only dead _temporarily_."

"He was _still dead_. And I don't even know why you're so dead-set on having him, you don't even do anything useful! Our process actually has some practical _value_-"

"You'd think a system as 'valuable' as yours would know how to _follow the rules_. May I remind you this is not the first time you've screwed up in so many months?"

"The last one was just a bad choice-"

"And so was this one! Because he was _ours first_."

"What exactly is it that you do?" Edgar asked K, cutting in before D could speak again. She looked at him, irritated at being interrupted, and brushed her hair back from her shoulders.

"Are you still here?" She glared at him and he felt the urge to back away from her, to get away. She looked between him and Scriabin, her eyes narrowed in scrutiny. "Ugh, look at you both." She turned back to D. "Look at this, look at them! The whole thing's been perverted, no doubt thanks to your funneling-"

"Don't blame us for the shortcomings in your design." D adjusted his glasses. "Personally I think your programming is shoddy to begin with. It's your own fault if errors happen. Frankly you should thank us for saving you the trouble of dealing with this one, he's obviously flawed."

Edgar felt a tinge of indignation at the insult, and Scriabin moved forward with an irritated "Hey!", his fists clenched. Edgar held out his arm again to keep him back and Scriabin pressed against it, but didn't push past him. Aware of his limits perhaps, but without that connection, all Edgar could do was guess. Scriabin had been in his head for so long, the two of them so closely connected, and still, he couldn't predict him.

D and K ignored them.

"Well, clearly," K said, and Edgar felt another tinge of indignation, almost disappointment. He thought K was on their side. "But he still developed _enough_, so it's technically still a success. Even if he's tainted. And it doesn't change the fact that he's still ours. _Both_ of them."

"Why does this even matter to you at this point?" D crossed his arms, huffing under his breath. "The cell's been flushed, he's dead, he's achieved his purpose."

"It matters because They don't consider this transaction valid because you broke protocol. Like _we're not supposed to do_ to each other. They're saying this doesn't count."

"What, exactly, is it that doesn't count?" As if he was tired of the entire conversation.

"You know as well as I do how it works, and there can be _no interference_. You interfered knowingly and persistently I might add, and even if we did end up with something that might be workable," she indicated Scriabin, "you left a huge mess behind. He died while _he_ was in control, even! I don't know if you could have made this worse if you _planned_ it this way. The schedule-!" K shook her head in apparent despair before regaining her focus, her eyes narrowed. "I'd think you'd _know_ what They want after the last time you-"

"The point please." D shook his head, looking upwards. "And may I remind you, we weren't the only ones interfering with someone else's business. We would have _been_ on schedule if _some_one-"

She cut him off sharply. "They're not happy with either of us. Things need to be cleaned up."

"So what is it that They want this time?"

"The entire thing's been declared invalid. They want it all wiped clean."

"Another reset?" D sighed. "Are you serious?"

"That's what They told me."

Edgar spoke up again. "A reset? Like before, when I woke up?" A flash of hope that was almost blinding in its unfamiliarity. He'd expected this to go badly for him, as so many things did, what other conclusion was there for Edgar Vargas, but if there was another reset...

"Yes, like before, you nit," K snapped at him. "This wouldn't have been necessary if _some_ people could leave well enough alone-"

D held out his arms. "You weren't there when we decided on him! He was completely fair game, and you must admit, a perfect choice for what we do! It would have been outrageous for us _not_ to pick him."

"And not only that, you actually had the audacity to try and meddle with _our work_!" K shouted back at him. "We know what you tried to do, those little toys of yours you sent in there to try and mess with our design-"

"I _knew_ it!" Scriabin leapt forward, pointing at D in triumph so suddenly that Edgar started somewhat. "I _knew_ it came from you! Do you know what that thing did to me? What it did to _him_?"

The dream, that dream that lurked in the back of his subconscious...

Edgar reached out to him, held up a hand to try and calm him down. Scriabin was frenzied with satisfaction at having identified the thing that had plagued them for so long, that he finally had proof, a chance for revenge, and he could see it in his face. "Scriabin, shh-"

"I knew it-"

"By the way, boy, it wouldn't have done _anything_ to him if you'd just _stayed put_ like you're supposed to." K turned on Scriabin, her movements unnatural and unexpected, and both of them jumped. Scriabin's triumphant look faltered, shifted to hesitant confusion. K kept pointing at him, jabbing her finger every now and then to emphasis what she was saying. "You're not even supposed to be able to leave him like that! Do you know how dangerous that is? And at this stage! Frankly I'm surprised you _both_ didn't end up dead." She turned back to D. "You see what your tampering has done? At least a reset will tear out all this garbage."

Scriabin didn't say anything, still apparently in shock that she'd turned on him so quickly. Edgar looked at him, wondering what he should say, before he looked back to D and K.

"So that thing that attacked me in that dream..." Edgar said softly. "That was... yours?"

D nodded, looking distinctly bored.

Scriabin galvanized, his fists raised, ready to rush at him. Edgar kept his arm out and Scriabin didn't push past him, shouting at D instead. "That thing nearly killed us-"

"Do I need to say it again?" K pointed at Scriabin, her voice sharp and commanding, and he reluctantly lowered his fists. "Frankly your programming is so distorted at this point that this is practically a blessing."

A moment to think about what she said, and something about it sent a chill through him, of staring into the abyss.

"Programming?" Edgar said, eventually, and Scriabin elbowed him in the ribs. He turned to look at him, annoyed, about to tell him to let her answer but Scriabin cut him off.

"So that thing that's been chasing us the last few months... that was you, wasn't it?" If Scriabin expected D to do something in response to his accusation, to gloat or to apologize or deny or at least _react_, he was disappointed. D only kept staring at him with that same bored expression, condescending and uninterested. "All the hallucinations, the nightmares, the blackouts, pushing me into the toy, that was all you?"

"You were in your _toy_?" Edgar grabbed his arm. What the fuck? "When did _that_ happen?"

"Shut up, Edgar." Distracted.

"You were ours to begin with," D said, his hands in his pockets. "It's all part of how it works. We laid claim to you after you died the first time. There was no fragment there to stop us. Unfortunately, when the reset completed, it seems like _you_ were included in the process... whatever your name is."

"It doesn't matter," K said before Scriabin could break in. She crossed her arms. "Either way, once you realized we were there, you should have stopped."

"He was more suited to our purposes than yours, and it's not an easy process to stop either, you know that." D rolled his eyes and adjusted his glasses. "And like I said earlier, at least _we_ do something constructive."

"He was perfect for our process, and you know it. Before you came in, everything was going smoothly. There were some minor glitches early on, but he was developing quickly and efficiently, and his host was none the wiser until it was too late." K made several check marks in the air to mark her points. "You know how rare that is. You could find any loner to work for yours."

"But we found _him_, and he was perfect."

Edgar was trying to piece together what they were saying, but Scriabin was focused on only one thing.

"So it was you that tried to move in on me in the car when we crashed?" Scriabin still glared at D, shaking a little, and Edgar was sure he was missing his coat fiercely right about now. His arms looked thin and weak this way, even with his fists clenched. He noticed, on closer inspection, that they bore scars. "You did that on purpose, didn't you?"

"Do you honestly think I have that kind of time?" D looked at Scriabin over the top of his glasses. "What do you think it is we do up here? Some other operative within our system probably had his own agenda. Possibly someone who might have a personal vendetta against you for some reason. Sound familiar?"

Scriabin didn't say anything, his knuckles white, and his silence, the focus in his hateful stare was unnerving. His own agenda... with how shoddily the systems seemed to be run, it did make sense that they wouldn't keep track of every thing involved in them, and from what happened with Johnny, they didn't seem that concerned with how well locks were doing either. Who would notice what a single monster was doing to a single lock? And if D didn't send it...

He looked back into his memories and it was easier now that he could think, that things made sense and stayed in place. He could remember, he could remember what happened, the first breach.

"A while ago, you said... something attacked me, didn't you? When I got so angry that one time? It tore you up..." Edgar said, somewhat to himself as he sorted through what had happened, added what he knew now. 

Scriabin didn't turn to look at him.

"And I found you in that dream and helped you. You said you fought it off. That they wouldn't like what you did." And Scriabin had certainly looked hurt then, like something had attacked him. He looked at Scriabin more carefully, tracing his arms with his eyes. Those scars, the wounds he'd bandaged, they ran upwards across his skin just like they had that night, and under his shirt, his shoulder was out of view, but no doubt...

"And... then I had that nightmare..." Edgar's hands rose unconsciously to take hold of his arms as the memories of it came back to him. "That thing, it must have been that thing that came back for me when you weren't there..." And still, Scriabin had never told him what it was he was doing. What was so important that he had to leave, what grand scheme of his that necessitated leaving him defenseless. He felt lightheaded, and he buried one hand in his hair. "So that was it, it wanted revenge... that's why it kept coming after us..."

Scriabin didn't say anything for a few seconds, the silence palpable and telling, and then he gritted out between clenched teeth, "This isn't my fault."

"It sure sounds like it is." For the first time, K smiled. It wasn't pleasant looking. "I do commend you on protecting your territory though. They shouldn't have even been there. It belonged to us."

Describing Edgar as his territory... something about it made his stomach knot up. He was reminded, again, of Scriabin's tone when he'd woken up in the car in front of the church that first time after he'd possessed him. How he'd told him he was just as confused as Edgar was, how he didn't know what happened. He'd said it all so sincerely, so convincingly, and it was all to keep Edgar from suspecting how powerful he'd grown, from building defenses, from doing something about it. He lied to him so he could do it again, he'd said that, and what was this?

"Scriabin, how much of this did you know?" Edgar shook his arm, urgently, and Scriabin gave him an irritated look. He didn't know what he was thinking, and Edgar wasn't used to that, and it didn't seem right. "How much of this did you know and never tell me?"

"You wouldn't believe me even if I told you," he said, spitefully. Of course. How else would he react? What else did Scriabin ever do when caught in a lie? This whole time... this whole time, he'd never told him, he'd lied to him again, he'd lied to him _again_.

He kept his grip on his arm tight. "Try me."

What else was there for Scriabin to even lie about now? What did Edgar have left?

"His data was corrupted almost from the start, it seems," K interjected, her voice clinical and uninvolved. She flipped through the papers on her clipboard. "It looks like someone tampered with his programming at a very early stage, although this doesn't mention who it was. His feedback routines were damaged. I suspect that's why he's flawed now."

Programming, feedback routines-

"I'm not flawed-"

"How much did you know?" Edgar squeezed his arm, his voice strained and Scriabin struggled to pull away from him.

"What does it matter now, Edgar?" Dismissive and angry, his basest defense of redirection to avoid the question. "We're dead, aren't we?"

"He didn't know anything, really," K said, and Scriabin turned towards her with a hiss. They'd never argued with another participant involved, and Scriabin did not like having attention taken from him, answers taken from him. Control taken from him. "Well, not as much as he'd like you to believe. None of them do. Most of our work 'phones home' without their knowledge. It just seems that his feedback routine didn't work as well as our others, although he was no more aware of it than they were."

He couldn't recall the last time he'd gotten a straight answer about anything involving Scriabin. No mirrors, no tricks, no lies, no metaphors. She just stated information on him straight out, and he could feel Scriabin's fury radiating off of him, that she would take something like that away from him. The countless secrets he taunted Edgar with.

In a way, what she said came as a relief... a growing knot of anger and hurt fading. Scriabin hadn't known anything either...

But that still didn't explain what it was Scriabin was supposed to do. Maybe he didn't know he was damaged, maybe he didn't know how he was born, but what was he supposed to _do_?

He loosened his grip on Scriabin's arm, and he could see dark marks where his fingers had pressed into his skin. He tried to soften his voice, a wordless apology. "Did you know what system you belonged to?"

It was directed at him, but he knew if Scriabin wouldn't answer...

"Fuck you."

"No, he didn't. Not exactly."

"And fuck you too! Fuck both of you, this is all your fault! We wouldn't even be here if you couldn’t leave us the hell alone-"

"It's because of us that you exist in the first place, you ungrateful son of a bitch. We _put you_ there. If it weren't for us, you wouldn't even be alive, if you can even call it that." K again pointed her pen at him, her voice ice cold. "And believe me, reversing our process is easier than with theirs." A wave at D. "My patience with you is already growing short."

Reversing the process, and that reminded him all too sharply that the two of them were separate beings now, unconnected by their usual emotional threads. How hard would it be, now that he was here outside of him, to just simply erase him entirely?

"Scriabin, stop, okay?" Edgar tried to ease him a few steps away. Scriabin was still furious, and when Edgar entered his vision he easily transferred his hatred to him, but he was used to it. "It's not going to help us now. It's already over."

"Shoddy work," D said, dismissively, and K sighed in irritation.

"I'll have to make a note to check the source code later when I have the time." She made a few more notes on her clipboard. "I still think this is your system's fault. Ours isn't designed to be a filter."

"If you'd just moved him to a different person-"

"Do you know how much paperwork that takes? We had him first."

"How did you find me in the first place?"

They both turned to look at him. Scriabin now stood behind him with his arms crossed, glaring daggers at both D and K, so Edgar decided he might as well try and get back into the conversation while he had the chance. "You said that you already, uh... found me before I died that one time." He hoped he was following this right. "How did you find me?"

"Generally, we're in contact with one another." D gestured in K's direction. "Information is useful since a lot of us are very specialized."

_How many systems are there?_

"I'm sure you remember the person who killed you the first time, don't you?" K said, now more bored than annoyed, then she paused and looked back at her notes. "No wait, he didn't kill you that time, that's right. He should have, but he didn't. Well, you died eventually either way, so it doesn't matter."

"You mean Nny."

"Yes, that's him," D said. "We found out about you when you came into contact with him. Same with the woman, what was her name..."

"Devi something." K flipped through the sheets on her clipboard.

"That's right. She was a bit more resilient than we'd thought."

It made sense... both he and Devi had their voices start after they meet up with Nny, after all. This revelation didn't come as much of a shock to him.

"So... you're not responsible for Sickness?" Edgar pointed at K. There was no harm in asking, and if things did reset and he had a chance to go back, maybe he could tell her what he knew.

K gave him a deeply unamused stare.

So much for that.

"Let me see if I've got this straight..." After an awkward pause. Restating what he knew would help him get his thoughts in order, and give them a chance to point out where he was wrong or add something. Nothing wrong with that.

And he waited, he waited for that voice in his mind, that presence, to appear and say something to him about what he was doing, about being logical and detaching or something, he wasn't good at it from Scriabin's point of view, but he waited for it. Expected it, and there was nothing. Only Scriabin standing behind him, huffing indignantly every now and then in his own body, so far away from him now.

"I met up with Nny, and then you found out about me," pointing at K, "and decided to, uh... put Scriabin in me."

"If you want to grossly oversimplify things in a somewhat misleading way." K curled her lip.

"Then later on I died, and Scriabin didn't come with me 'cause... he can't with how it works with you?" Looking at K, although her withering stare made it difficult to hold her gaze for very long. "And then you saw me," looking at D now, "and decided I should be a lock. Is that right?"

"You would have made a perfect waste lock." D put his hands in his pockets. "You nearly did, if some people hadn't made the business unnecessarily difficult."

"Then... since then, you've been fighting over me?" This explained _a lot_ of what had been happening to him over the past couple months.

"In a manner of speaking. _He_ was probably instinctually doing a lot of it without even knowing why." She pointed at Scriabin, who glared back at her. "A lot of it was on the minor scale for a time. It was only when things began to get serious that we started to get more involved." K clicked her pen, bored. "When they began encroaching on our territory, we had to do something."

That sounded ominous. "What did you do?"

"When you work in this field, it's foolish to not have some precautions against attack." Casually. "Simple self-defense protocols that he probably didn't even know he was running-"

He didn't have time to feel indignant on Scriabin's behalf. He felt his fingers tight against his collarbones, shouting across his shoulder at them and Edgar winced at the volume of it. "I'm not a robot!" 

D continued speaking to K like nothing had interrupted them. Like Scriabin wasn't there, and Edgar knew that wasn't helping. "When he died, your claim to him ended. You shouldn't have been defending territory that wasn't yours."

His grip tightened, painful, and Scriabin shouted, louder this time. "Everything I did was my decision!" His voice cracked and he was getting out of control, he was going to make them angry and they would do something terrible to him, erase him or delete him or something, and Edgar wasn't going to let that happen. It was up to him to be responsible, to be calm, to be thoughtful, to be rational and he broke his grip on his shoulders so he could turn to face him. He held up his hands to try and quiet him, and even with his eyes hidden, it was easy to see the rage on Scriabin's face. He'd insisted so adamantly that he could fix things, that he could save them, that he knew what to do. Everything was under his control, his master plan, his elaborate webs of lies to build his power over Edgar.

To hear this, to hear that it was all the result of programming, subconscious routines, to hear that he had been under someone else's control the entire time and he'd never even known...

That monitor he'd seen in the dream beside his skeletal form...

"Everything I did I did for me!" Scriabin pressed a hand to his chest, and he could see his face darkening. "Not for you, not for anyone else! _I_ was the one who figured out what was going on, _I_ was the one who protected him, I never needed you or anyone, if it weren't for me, he'd be dead right now-"

"Scriabin, be quiet." Edgar tried to keep his voice calm in contrast. He was going to make them angry, he was going to make them angry and the two of them were already in a dangerous enough position as it was. He couldn't let him do that to himself, not now. Someone had to think ahead. "It's okay, alright? Just stop shouting, we don't want to make this worse-"

"It was _my decision_! _I_ decided to come this far! I was in control! I had everything figured out from the start! This is exactly what I wanted to happen!"

He'd heard that from him so many times, but back then, he'd always sounded a lot more confident.

"Scriabin, calm down! Jesus." Edgar shook him a little, trying to redirect his attention. "This isn't the time, okay? Later. Just stop."

"And this is what you were trying so hard to save?" D said to K, with the same dismissive tone as before.

"He was trying to save himself." Like a minor correction. "Self-preservation is the first building block in the process. It's very strongly encoded."

"If it weren't-" Scriabin started again, and Edgar shook him enough so he refocused. His voice dropped with the intent of only Edgar hearing him, and he grabbed Edgar's arms, meaningfully, as if he could lock Edgar's attention on him alone. "If it wasn't for me, if it wasn't for me, Edgar, you have no idea what would have happened to you, if I hadn't- all of this relied on my hard work and effort, on _my_ planning-"

"Fine, okay, it did, alright? I know it did, and it was all up to you, all of it, fine. Just calm down already." He spoke quickly, urgently. Emotional highs like this were uncomfortable and dangerous and the pleading beneath his words, that craving for validation from him, all of that was too familiar. He thought of their joint delusions, the life they'd built together, and this wasn't the time. They couldn't do this right now. It was going to get them worse than killed.

Scriabin turned away from him, angry and frustrated, and when his hair whipped him in the face, he caught a glimpse of red tangled somewhere within.

They were definitely getting too close, even when they couldn't hear each other. What did that mean? 

He set the metaphysical questions aside for another time when he and Scriabin could work it out. "So what happens now?" Edgar looked back to D and K, who had been talking quietly to one another. They didn't look pleased at the interruption.

"I told you before. They want a reset. They aren't happy at all with how this happened."

"I expect there will be talks further up eventually, but this is the first step for now."

So he hadn't just imagined it, hoped that that was what they'd said. The mention of later talks vaguely concerned him, but he could leave that for when they happened for now. What was important was that he wasn't going to stay dead after all.

But it wouldn't hurt to confirm a few things.

"So... that means that both the waste lock system and... your system will leave me alone, right?" God knows that Edgar had had enough dealings with the supernatural to last him four lifetimes. He wasn't sure if he could handle some other bizarre, inexplicable thing happening to him for no reason. Christ, what if he came back and he just got another new mental voice along with Scriabin? He shuddered at the thought. He didn't even know what the other systems even did.

"Essentially, yes." K clicked her pen. "They both want a clean slate. Everyone has gotten very tired of you up there, Mr. Vargas. The sooner we can get you out of our hair and properly alive then dead again without any red tape the better."

At least the feeling was mutual. Edgar breathed a sigh of relief at the thought. God, what would it be like to have a normal life again? It had been so long, he almost couldn't remember what it was like.

Although, on that note...

"So... what happens to him?" Edgar gestured back at Scriabin. His presence had become so commonplace, so accepted, that when he thought of his life there was always Scriabin. He assumed that he'd be coming back with him.

But they had conspicuously avoided talking to him, or mentioning what would happen to him. Their attention focused on Edgar alone, and he was starting to wonder if they'd just forgotten to consider Scriabin... or if they had another plan for him entirely.

From the look on Scriabin's face, apparently he had also assumed he'd be coming back with him. He did not look ready to consider any other possibility, and Edgar could feel him toying with the hem of his shirt again.

K tilted her head, one eyebrow raised. She seemed genuinely bemused by the question.

"Hmm. Thought we'd just scrap him, really. He is somewhat broken."

"It'd save you some work, certainly," D said from one side.

Scriabin shifted a little, moving just behind Edgar, his fingers twisting harder into his shirt. Edgar noticed this, but didn't give any outward sign that he did. He struggled to match the clinical tone D and K had had through so much of the conversation. "You mean, you're just going to... not put him back?"

"Like I said, we want nothing more to do with you." K pointed at him. "I wouldn't be surprised if they put in a specific rule that none of us are to touch you from this point on. You make a mess of everything."

The reality wasn't sinking in, and just as before, when the conversation started, when it all started, that familiar litany began in the back of his head. This can't be right, this can't be happening...

"So you can't put him back in me then?" It probably said something about his life up to this point that the sentence didn't even strike him as strange anymore.

"No," K said.

"You could always strip most the code and see if you can find the fragment again. Find a new host that isn't taken by someone else," D said with a distinctly passive aggressive tone to his voice.

They weren't going to put him back. They were going to... whatever it was they were going to do with him, but they weren't going to put him back. They were just going to leave him, dismantle him, they didn't care and it wasn't fair, it wasn't fair, he didn't have to die. He shouldn't have to die.

Having the both of them be dead was a different thing entirely from having only one. He could feel Scriabin close behind him, his grip tight on his shirt, the trembling in his arms, his quick breathing. He was frightened, frightened but trying to hide it. Maybe he knew what this meant, what this would exactly entail for him. Maybe it was worse than death, maybe he'd just be reborn in a different body, reincarnated, but he wouldn't be the same and...

And Scriabin was his, he belonged with him. He'd created him, he'd nurtured him, they'd grown together and it wasn't, this wasn't, this couldn't be how it ended. So suddenly and he'd never thought...

He had to do something, he had to say something. Convince them to save him, convince him he was worthwhile, that he was important to him. Something, he had to say something to stop this, to save him. Scriabin was a smug bastard who tortured him relentlessly for all of his mistakes but he was still his, he was still his... he was still a part of him. His life. His brother. In spite of everything he'd done, all the hurtful things he'd said, he was Edgar's responsibility... he'd given birth to him, one way or another, and he was his responsibility. He couldn't just let them take him away like this. He couldn't let them just have him without saying something.

And while he knew he couldn't let this happen, that he had to do something, that he must do something, he found the words were hard in coming. He struggled for the right phrasing, for knowledge of what would appeal to the two representatives in front of him. Pleading his- Scriabin's case would require eloquence, some kind of understanding of these forces out of his control, words carefully thought out...

"I don't... really want him to die, though."

And that was all he could come up with. He felt Scriabin press his head into the back of his neck, and he was still breathing quickly. That may have been enough for the two of them, but it wasn't going to be enough for D or K, he knew it.

"He won't die since he's never been alive," K said, as if she was talking about a piece of paper. "He's essentially still a parasite at this stage."

There were numerous things he wanted to say to that... that of course Scriabin was alive and could die, he was aware, wasn't he? And a parasite... maybe, but he'd done so much work to protect him...

And again, that nagging doubt resurfaced, that question he'd never had a real answer to. Something that had haunted him for so long. A parasite... but what exactly did Scriabin do? Apparently he had multiple stages... what were they for?

He felt Scriabin press up tighter to his back, close to hyper-ventilating, and he wasn't saying anything. The one time he really could have used his abilities, his skill with words, his deconstructions, and he was silent.

"This stage... what's the final stage?" He wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer, he felt that deep apprehension again, but he had always wondered. He had always wondered what it was Scriabin was supposed to do, what it was underneath all the varying motivations and inconsistent behavior. What was he meant for? Why was he here?

"You're somewhat close to it, actually. It seems he's been speeding it along since he was under unwarranted and unjustified attack." K glanced over at D, who yawned. "It involves him taking over your body and mind permanently."

Edgar froze in shock, and Scriabin made a faint sound behind him.

"Take... take me over?" He said it but it didn't make the words seem any more real, the initial impact before the pain took over.

"Yes, that's how it works." Casually, and she rolled her pen between her fingers.

It was hard to force out the words through a constricting throat, through the heartbeat thudding in his ears. It was starting to sink in, the ramifications spreading like a water droplet across a hard surface.

"What about... me?" Edgar touched his chest. Scriabin still had yet to say anything.

K looked up from her clipboard, then rested a hand on her hip. She tilted her head, giving him a bored look. "Honestly Mr. Vargas, were you even _using_ your life?"

Edgar opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

"No family, no friends, no connections, nothing. A perfect blank slate to make an actual person. A shame that the programming got corrupted so early. Instead of a replacement, you just split in half." K shook her head and sighed. "This has just been one long nightmare from start to finish."

And all that Edgar could think of was how, so early on, from the very beginning, Scriabin had always been telling him how lonely he was, how pointless his life was, how invisible he was, how worthless he was...

Not a real person, just... a place for a real person to grow.

"I... need to sit down." He felt dizzy and sick, and he fell to his knees. It hurt, but at this point he was beyond caring. It kept echoing in his head, kept echoing around and around, a place for a real person to grow, a place for a real person to grow, and someday, someday, this whole time, this whole time and... and Scriabin had never told him...

He could feel Scriabin following him downwards, kneeling behind him, letting go of his shirt to try and rest a hand on his shoulder. It was hesitant, fearful, and his voice was unsteady and weak.

"Edgar..."

Reaching out to him, reaching out to him after everything, after all this, how could he, all this time he'd used him, he'd gained his trust so he could grow, so he could develop, and now he was reaching out to him like they were friends, like they were still connected, anything more than a host and a parasite, and Edgar felt sick. His eyes watered, the back of his throat itched, Scriabin was touching, someday Scriabin was just going to _be_ him, and he was reaching out to him, and some part of him, some part of him still wanted to believe it wasn't true, that Scriabin wouldn't do this to him, and how many times would that part of him have to get kicked in the gut before it stayed down?

"Just don't." He shoved Scriabin's hand away from him, trying to keep his stomach under control, and Scriabin didn't attempt to replace it. He stayed behind him, near enough so he could feel his presence, but not touching him.

If he could feel his emotions now... if they could hear each other now... would this go any differently?

_Everything we went through... all of it, all of it so you..._

"I thought that should have been obvious from the beginning," K said, as close as she came to sounding puzzled as well as annoyed. "You weren't even afraid to die. Everyone is afraid to die unless they have nothing to live for."

Edgar shuddered and pressed his hands to his head, trying to keep himself under control. A headache was developing, a bad one, and his stomach still wasn't doing him any favors. He didn't know what to say to that, and Scriabin wasn't with him anymore.

How could every betrayal of Scriabin's be worse than the last? He felt him stand up from behind him, still close enough to feel his presence. Edgar was done with the conversation... from this point on, it was up to Scriabin to keep going.

"So what happens to me then?"

"I could not care less, boy. Frankly you're an embarrassment. I can see where the errors twisted your reasoning, it's disgusting. Particularly that need for validation you have, that's way too high." Edgar heard scritching noises, like a pen against paper. That stupid part of him thought about what she said, that he was supposed to be replaced and instead he'd just split in half... "You aren't supposed to be codependent, you know."

Codependent... the word stuck in his head.

Scriabin persisted, in spite of the fear working itself into his voice. "What happens to me?"

"Edgar is going to get an entirely undeserved third chance at life, and with the company he keeps I expect it will be short and unpleasant. As for you, I have no idea."

"You should scrap him."

"Fuck you! This is all your fault anyway!"

Edgar took some deep breaths, and thinking back through his memories, struggling to separate the fiction from the truth, all he could think about were all the things that Scriabin had said to him from the very beginning, the first times he'd heard his voice, the first things he'd said, the first and oldest weaknesses and defense mechanisms he exploited and used to develop. That lingering doubt, that question of why he was so alone, why his life was so empty, why. And now it made sense, it made sense that Scriabin had focused on that aspect of his life, had drawn strength from it, had raised the question. That was his source, his destination, his destiny. To fill that void, to replace that emptiness, to give an empty life meaning. That was what he was meant to do, and that was where he'd started and where he'd eventually end, and he couldn't believe it. After all this time he'd never noticed and now it all added up. He'd thought at times that maybe Scriabin was just meant to drive him insane, some variant on the psychoses that plagued Johnny, an unintentional infection caused by coming into contact with Johnny, but he'd never thought that Scriabin was meant to _replace_ him... God, his final few months, how many days had he actually spent awake? Was that why Scriabin could hear his thoughts and his words when he was in Edgar's mind, and yet when Scriabin took control, Edgar blacked out completely? Like there was nothing, a gap until he woke up again, and one day he was just intended to never wake up...

"Why don't you... don't you have any... something..." Scriabin searching for words, which was rare for him. He could hear the panicky tone in his voice, knew that he was terrified, that he knew what was going to happen to him, that this could really be the end. He'd always been so adamant about trying to keep him away from deadly situations. His fear of death... was that meant to protect him, to make him fight when Edgar tried to cast him out? To give him the fortitude to survive in his host's body until he was strong enough to take it over completely? Accomplish his objectives? Edgar's stomach hurt. "Can't you give me a body or something?"

"Give you a body?" K snorted. "Why the hell should we do that?"

Scriabin was desperate, and her lack of a straight-out refusal had encouraged him. He clung to the possibility like a drowning man. "If you can't put me back in him, then... put me somewhere else. Then we can..." He didn't finish his thought.

"It'd be far easier to just scrap you entirely, boy. You're more trouble intact than you are in pieces at this point. Getting rid of you wouldn't take much work at all."

He heard Scriabin swallow hard - he was struggling to be confident, his voice straining, but it was a shallow cover, and it was clear that what she was saying was affecting him. He hung onto the possibility, to the one idea he had left, the one way out of this he could think of.

"And how much work for a body?"

"Why the hell should I even give you one? What makes you think I even can?" She was unmoved by the fear in his voice, the pleading tone. The only reason he could think of that she was still talking was that she found something about the conversation curious in some way, but by her tone he didn't think Scriabin had much longer to convince her. The ultimate test of his abilities, and really, he'd only honed his skills on Edgar and Edgar alone...

"There's got to be something," Scriabin said, his voice lowering and quavering. He coughed and tried to smooth it out without success. "There's got to be some way to get out of this." That tone Edgar knew well, the one that wished that saying something could make it true.

"For _you_ to get out of this, you mean," K said. "That's your self-preservation instinct talking. You just don't want to die."

Scriabin didn't say anything.

"You haven't even thought it through all the way, you just don't want to stop existing. Have you even thought about what having a body would entail? You've never even _breathed_. Even if I did give you a body, you'd probably have a heart attack and die during your first five minutes from overstimulation."

'If I did'... so she could...

"Are we done here?" D said, distinctly bored.

"Yes, I think so." Edgar heard her turn away. "We can just get rid of him when the reset happens."

His final test, and Scriabin had failed. He couldn't convince them to save his life, and now he was going to die, and there was nothing he could do or say to stop it. And for once, he could not blame Edgar for it.

There was a brief moment of silence, and he felt Scriabin's hands grip his shoulders like claws, digging in hard again as he leaned over him. His weight was unexpected, and he felt the tip of that quartz crystal he was wearing scrape the top of his head. He hadn't gotten the chance to ask him about that...

"FUCK YOU!" He felt it reverberate through his hands. Scriabin's voice was breaking, tearing in places. "I never asked for this to happen to me! You can't do this to me! After everything that's happened-"

"Have you ever heard the story of Job?" K said conversationally to her companion. "It's one of God's little stories about suffering."

"Ah yes, I think I have," D said. "That was the one where God didn't have to answer for why suffering happened, wasn't it?"

"That's right, because He's God. He's beyond mortal questions or their understanding," K said. "It's an interesting story."

Edgar could feel Scriabin trembling with rage, a few stuttering sounds as he tried to think of something to say in response and failed, and he felt something wet hit the top of his head. There was a brief moment of silence, then Scriabin took in a sharp, ragged breath, trying his hardest to hold it in quietly. His fingers dug in deeper in Edgar's skin, holding on to him for dear life.

Rage was an inept cover for fear. Scriabin didn't want to die.

As long as he'd known him, he didn't want to die. Now he knew why.

Meant to replace him, take over his life, protecting himself so he could fulfill his final purpose. Everything he'd done to serve that purpose, everything he'd said to him just a trick, a lie to convince him to give away his life. To let Scriabin take it away from him, and he'd believed him. He'd believed him for so long, the two of them, they'd...

They'd... formed a relationship together, they'd talked to one another, grown alongside each other. He grew more and more powerful, waiting for that final stage when he'd take him over for good and he'd simply be gone, and that was what he was working for... this whole time, that was what he'd wanted. Edgar couldn't believe he hadn't seen it until now, and he tried to think back and remember more, more evidence of Scriabin's deception, the lies he'd used to further his goals. He thought back and remembered, remembered Scriabin saying that if they had to share a life together, he at least wanted it to not be a complete joke. He was lying, he was lying just to make him complacent so he could grow, but his mind stuck on the words. Sharing a life together.

Sharing a life together. He tried to remember other things that Scriabin had said, other hints that he had overlooked, other lies he'd foolishly believed, and instead, the image of a small boy, crumpled at the bottom of a ravine came to him, a perfect pool of blood spreading from his skull.

That wasn't what he was looking for but he couldn't shake it away. His mind focused on it, refused to let it go, and he couldn't blame Scriabin on his fixation now with how they'd been pulled apart. This was him, this was all him now, and he wanted to think of how Scriabin had tricked him, lied to him, hurt him, and instead he thought back to the story he'd made up about him that night of fervent delusions. He thought of that body in the ravine, and how it felt to skid down the side, to want more than anything for it not to be real and yet knowing somewhere, at the same time, that it was. That the illusion was precious, and that illusion involved both of them with their own place.

Beside one another as individuals, Scriabin augmenting his memories instead of replacing him. Each with their own place, self-defined, tailored to them, each of them with their own place they decided to have, they consciously decided was theirs, and they both made that decision. They both made that decision, and Scriabin didn't fight him. He stood beside him, stayed with him. Together. He didn't replace him, he didn't decide to replace him, he didn't decide to take his past as his own, one step at a time. The two of them had worked at it, had defined it, and they defined it as two people. Two separate people, equally legitimate. Equally real. It was a conscious decision on both their parts, and somehow that was all he could think of.

The hundreds of times Scriabin had lied to him, the abuse Scriabin had put him through, the fights they'd had, the painful struggle over their shared body, he thought of all of it and he thought of that connection in their shared dream, those moments where they shared a tenuous understanding and Scriabin was his own person with Edgar, Edgar thought he was his own person, and that was all that they needed.

His personal parasite, slowly devouring his mind, and his younger brother, who longed to share his life.

Running out the door, and if he'd gone to look for him, if he'd gone to look for him, if he'd done something, if he hadn't given up, then he would have survived. If he hadn't given up, he would have survived.

Equally real.

"What if _I_ asked you?"

"Hmm?" K and D turned around to look at Edgar, who was still kneeling on the floor. He swallowed, trying to steel himself for what he knew was coming, and this probably wouldn't work and even if it did, he was probably going to regret it, but the words had come out of him and he couldn't stop now. If Scriabin had been with him, inside of him, as he normally was, he probably would never let him forget it, and at that thought he found himself talking again.

"What if I asked you to... give him a body of his own?" Edgar said, trying hard to keep back the tears that were rising to his eyes for no apparent reason.

"We're already giving you another chance at life, Mr. Vargas," K said, frowning. "Do you really think it's wise to ask for more?"

They were right, phrased that way it seemed ridiculous, dangerous, they didn't even need to let him live right now as it was, and here he was making irrational demands of them, all because he...

He couldn't...

Scriabin had yet to say anything, frozen behind him, his fingers still resting on his shoulder. Like he was afraid that moving might shatter whatever it was that was happening.

Edgar didn't know what to say to them, to convince them to help someone who had already caused them so much grief. How could he ask them something like this, to save something that was more trouble than it was worth for his benefit? How could he ask them for something like that? What could he say to convince them to do something they had absolutely no reason to do?

"It doesn't feel right to have someone die so I could live..." It was all he could think of, and Edgar said it quietly, his eyes closing. His breath hitched, and he felt like there was more he could say, should say, but nothing came. If Scriabin had been with him, inside of him, he would have-

"Picture perfect to the end, aren't you?" A familiar voice behind him, his eyes snapped open and he could see tendrils of black smoke curling up near the edges of his vision. He turned around, hoping he was wrong, and there was the tall, skeletal form of Satan, something that he'd hoped he'd never see again. All at once it brought back memories of the last time he'd seen him, what he'd experienced, what he was told, where he was apparently destined to go, and his stomach lurched. "And of course, we all know that's a blatant lie. Christians do make the best hypocrites. Did I miss everything?"

"I'm afraid so," D said. "He seems to have at least a loose grasp on what happened now."

"What a pity. I wanted to watch the realization strike home. It's a beautiful moment." Senor Diablo raised a thin hand to his chin. "Your kind tends to do it better than anyone else."

"Why are you here?" Edgar said weakly.

"I enjoy suffering, of course." Senor Diablo smiled at him, and Edgar felt Scriabin's fingers tighten around his shoulders. He was behind him again, keeping Edgar between him and this new apparent threat. "But no, They thought it might be best to have someone from our side of things present when things get reset. Make sure everything goes back into its proper place."

Its proper place...

"What about... what's going to happen to Scriabin?"

"Ah yes, you." Senor Diablo leaned over, slowly, snakelike, and came very close to Scriabin, whose hands were beginning to shake. "I'd say that you present a problem, but you don't. I think a solution has already been reached."

He should have expected an answer like that from Satan, and still it hit him hard.

"They're not... they can't just kill him like that," Edgar said, unable to think of anything more eloquent or powerful to say, and he could still feel Scriabin trembling behind him.

"They can do whatever They like, I'm afraid." Senor Diablo was smiling, fully aware of the emotional turmoil before him. "What you have to say has very little impact on anything that's about to happen."

And a thought occurred to Edgar, quick and absurd and it wasn't an argument, wasn't a defense, wasn't something he could say to them or have anyone understand, wasn't something that would change anything, but still it came to him, and he couldn't force it away.

_But he's not theirs, he's mine._

"Besides, something needs to be alive to die," Senor Diablo said, still smiling. He leaned in closer towards Scriabin. "Tell me, do you think you have a soul?"

"What?" Scriabin said, quietly.

"A soul, dear boy." And Edgar shuddered. "Do you think you have a soul? Or perhaps you think that you both share one, as impossible as that is. Although my guess is that the thought hasn't occurred to you seriously until now, has it?"

Scriabin didn't say anything.

"You do strike me as an atheist." Senor Diablo straightened. "Ah, they're setting it in motion. You remember this from last time, don't you?" Looking at Edgar with his wide, empty eyes.

They were running out of time, and he'd run out of ideas.

"What's going to happen to him?" Edgar said, a bit choked despite his best efforts.

"He'll probably just disappear. It'd be amusing if you could watch him fall apart in front of you, but you'll most likely just wake up truly alone again. I wonder, have you really missed it as much as you might think?"

"Edgar-" Scriabin had been standing behind him, leaning over him, and now he knelt down. He finally let go of Edgar's shoulders to instead wrap his arms tightly around his neck, press himself against his back. It wasn't a hug, an embrace; Scriabin was trying to hold on to him. Like physical contact would make a difference, like a tight enough grip could reverse the inevitable.

Edgar had to say something, do something. There had to be something he could do. He couldn't just let this happen, there had to be _some_thing...

"Isn't there anything I can do? Anything I can say? Something, anything, I'll... there has to be something I can say that'll let him stay alive, isn't there?"

"Life isn't really my department, exactly." Still quietly amused with them both, giving them a heavy-lidded stare. "You may be asking the wrong person."

Edgar opened and closed his mouth for a second, about to ask who it was before the answer struck him, clear and immediate, and he shut his eyes. He didn't have time to doubt it, to question it, to think about it. He clasped his hands together as tightly as he could, and he could feel Scriabin trembling against his back, his grasp tight enough to make breathing difficult.

He didn't speak out loud. He did recognize this feeling, just as he'd been warned. A kind of blurring sensation, things moving too fast and not at all at the same time, and he focused as hard as he could because he didn't have much time left and he had to act quickly. There were thousands of reasons he shouldn't do this, thousands of reasons why it wouldn't be answered, thousands of reasons he'd regret this, but with only seconds left, he relied on what he believed in deep down. There was no time for doubt, for questioning, for second-guessing. Only for that constant that had been the bedrock of his life, something that he knew, even after everything that had happened, and the fact that as tested as it was, he still came back to it, perhaps proved its strength.

_Please God, oh Holy Father, show him mercy, let him live._ Scriabin's grip on his throat kept tightening, and he was choking. _We don't deserve your mercy but please give it to us anyway, let him come with-_

 

Edgar jerked awake, a bolt of pain like lightning running down his spine. His head throbbed and there was an unpleasant metallic taste in his mouth. He blinked and his vision was cloudy, he couldn't see anything. There was a loud honking sound, like someone was leaning on a car horn, and an acrid smell like something burning. Something was tight across his neck.

A car crash... that's how they said he'd died. Edgar lifted his arms, found them heavy and awkward, and pushed himself off of the steering wheel. His chest ached and his shirt felt wet. He touched it clumsily with his fingers and they came back red.

Steering column possibly punctured his chest originally... but it felt intact now. Although some of his ribs felt like they might be broken. Figured that the airbag hadn't gone off.

He could see his glasses on the crushed hood of his car, and vaguely he felt a twinge of irritation. He'd just gotten a new pair.

Still groggy and dizzy, Edgar clumsily fumbled with the seatbelt. It looked like Scriabin hadn't fastened the bottom part when he'd gotten in the car... he slid out from beneath the shoulder guard and managed to get the door open. He fell out onto the asphalt, retching for a few seconds in the aftermath of adrenaline and fear and pain.

He was alive.

_Scriabin?_

No answer.

Not even static.

_Scriabin?_

Nothing.

He was gone.

Edgar panted for a few seconds, trying to catch his breath and he spat out a mouthful of blood. He felt something over the back of his hands... he hadn't noticed until now that he was wearing his coat. The ground glistened with water and oil caught by the remaining streetlights... looking hazily upwards towards the cloudy sky, he saw what he was relatively sure was his apartment building without his glasses.

Scriabin had barely gotten out the door... or had he just looped around too many times?

"Scriabin?" Scratchy and faint. He never realized that Scriabin had made a distinct background "sound" while in his mind until he couldn't hear it anymore. Everything was quiet, silent, nothing. Empty.

Alone.

He heard something thud against the car door behind him.

Had Scriabin had passengers during his ill-fated trip? Feeling numb and distant, like he was watching himself go through the motions, Edgar turned around and reached out to open the rear door. It took a try or two before his fingers hooked into the door handle.

Pulled it open, and there was a man in the backseat.

He wasn't breathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't abandoned this fic just yet. As always, thanks for your patience.


	29. Consequences

His first thought was that he had to do something. Edgar didn't know exactly how long people could survive without breathing, but it seemed safe to assume that it wasn't very long. He had to do something. Echoing in the now empty spaces of his mind, waiting for a sarcastic comment that wouldn't be coming, the only thing he could think of was that he had to do something, and he had to do it _now_.

Details came to him in pieces, something in his mind refusing to let them come together. There were wires disconnected, something not quite right, a flashing warning somewhere but he didn't have the time to think about the hole inside him for more than a few seconds. This man's life was at stake, he had to do something. 

This man was not wearing any clothes.

Edgar staggered to his feet, reached into the car and grabbed the man beneath his arms and hauled him out onto the pavement before it occurred to him that he shouldn't be moving people that could have just been traumatically injured. Something about the neck, he couldn't remember at the moment and anyway it was too late, it was done. The man lay on the ground, just as motionless and unresponsive as he'd been in the backseat, and still it was like a haze hovered over him, the reception of Edgar's brain somehow damaged because he could not see the whole picture. It didn't matter how tall he was (about Edgar's height, although perhaps an inch shorter) or how much he weighed (about Edgar's weight, with the same body type as well) or what he looked like. What mattered right now was that this man was not functioning, and if Edgar didn't do something, he was going to stay that way.

Edgar knelt beside the body, pressed a hand to the man's bare chest to listen for a heartbeat but his own was thudding too hard in his ears. It was easy enough to tell though that the man had yet to take a breath, and how long could someone last without air?

He snapped through scenarios like he was flipping through channels on a TV, trying to find a solution. If he wasn't breathing, then Edgar had to help him breathe. That would follow, wouldn't it? And to do that, you did CPR. That's how it worked on TV and books, anyway. He didn't have any other ideas, and he didn't have time to give it much more thought than that. Each second was precious.

How did people do CPR anyway? He struggled to remember, staring at a man whose many parts refused to coalesce into a solid whole. They pinched someone's nose and breathed into their mouth, didn't they? That made sense, it would get air into the man's lungs which was what he needed. That's what he had to do.

No hesitation. Not with so few seconds on the clock. Edgar pinched the man's nose, pulled his mouth open, and covered it with his own. The man's chest rose as he breathed into him, apparently completely empty beforehand, and Edgar leaned back. What did they do after this? They pushed the air out, didn't they? To simulate breathing? That seemed to make sense, so Edgar pressed the palms of his hands against the stranger's sternum, forcing the air back out as gently as possible. He didn't want to make things worse, after all.

The man's chest didn't rise again, but that was alright. They'd always done it multiple times in the shows he'd seen. He couldn't expect instant results. Edgar closed his mouth over his again, breathed into him, pushed it out, breathed into him again. Still no response, but he'd do this as long as it took. He wasn't giving up on this man.

He was sick of people dying because of him. 

Another lungful of air into him, and another lungful out. Their mouths met again, and this time, he felt something. Edgar pulled back immediately and watched with wide eyes as the man's chest rose a fraction and fell.

Had he done it? Did it work?

His eyes were still closed, he still said nothing but Edgar could faintly hear air through the man's open mouth. He expected him to take a deep relieved breath now that his lungs were apparently functioning again, but the movements of his chest were too small and shallow... as if the exertion was too much.

He couldn't afford to let them slip away when they were so close to surviving. Edgar pressed the man's chest down, forced the air out again, and then this time, slower and with more deliberation, breathed into him. And this time, he definitely felt him move. Edgar leaned back, and he could feel the air leave the man's body and see his chest rise and fall. He was breathing. He was breathing, he'd done it!

"Are you alright?" Edgar said, even though he knew the man would be in no state to reply. So many connections in his mind didn't seem to be working right, no doubt the stress and adrenaline but something was missing.

Scriabin said nothing, and as he registered how odd that was, he remembered it was because Scriabin wasn't there anymore.

He'd wished for as long as he could remember for the day when Scriabin would finally just _shut up_, and now that it had happened, he didn't feel any of the relief or happiness or peaceful calm that he'd always expected. Instead there was a clumsy numbness, a discomforting silence; a massive, unexpected hole pulling all emotion inside in an effort to fill and explain.

How much space inside him had Scriabin taken up?

The man didn't respond to his question, although after a time he eventually groaned. Still unconscious but at least he was breathing, and when Edgar put his hand on his chest, he could feel his heart. Stable, hopefully, at least for now.

He leaned back, tried to think of what to do, and his thoughts echoed in a terrible and frightening void. He literally could not remember a time when he'd had his thoughts to himself, or when he'd ever been so uncomfortable with silence.

_Where are you? Are you there? Scriabin, can you hear me?_

The man was still naked, and given the cooling overcast twilight and dirty wet asphalt beneath him, he probably wasn't too happy about it. Echo echo echo in his head where Scriabin would have been, what he would have said, he could hear it almost but it wasn't the same. His thoughts reached out desperately for their counterpart and found nothing. No response, no rejoinder, nothing. Just him, only him.

Edgar shrugged his coat off, wincing at the ache that suddenly flared around his waist and back. After-effects of the crash no doubt, but it could have been far worse. He tossed the coat over the man's body like a blanket, and there, at least Edgar could give him his dignity.

Who was this man? Every now and then the thought would surface, but it was constantly being pushed down, drowned out by other concerns. That static determined to not let him listen, and how could he deny that there were more important things at hand?

What was he going to do with this guy?

"Mr. Edgar!"

He turned his head, although the pain in his neck made him regret it. Todd, of course, how could he forget? He must have heard what happened from the apartment, they were right outside after all... "Mr. Edgar, are you okay? I heard a huge crash, are you okay? You're covered in blood!"

How long had he been dead? How long had it all taken, in reality? It was like he was standing a step outside of himself - maybe that's why he felt so hollow. The buildings around him seemed hazy and indistinct; the doors Todd had come from blurry and unreal. "I'm okay, Todd." How was his voice so steady? "I think things will be okay now."

"What do you mean? Are you not really bleeding?" Todd came closer to him, a mixture of concern and confusion on his face. "Is it someone else's blood?" He looked at the broken car still wrapped tightly around the bent and sparking lamp post, the motionless man on the ground. "Who is that? _He's_ not bleeding..."

"I don't know," Edgar said, and it echoed in the corners of his mind, waiting for the response he knew it deserved, yet it never came. Alone, alone, _alone_ now. No more conversations, only him. "He was in the car when I... when Scriabin crashed." A moment. "It was Scriabin, wasn't it?"

Todd looked thoughtful for a few seconds, not taking his eyes off the lying figure. "The last one I talked to was Mr. Scri, yeah. He said he wanted to go for a drive, I think."

That matched with what he could remember about his most recent near-death experience. 

"We should get him inside. It's cold out here," Edgar said, somehow, and he wasn't sure where the words were coming from. Something was wrong but no one would tell him what it was. "Can you help me carry him?"

"What about your car?" Todd looked back at the still smoking wreck.

"I'll deal with it when we get inside." Edgar stood up, wobbled and Todd steadied him. "If I get his shoulders, can you get his feet for me?"

Todd was eager to help and while he was only a small boy, he was certainly better than nothing. It wasn't like he didn't need the help; Edgar still felt unsteady on his feet, his breathing rasped in his chest somewhere and he ached in every muscle group he had. But he was still conscious and this man was not, and that was enough for him to push through it to make their zig-zagging way back to the apartment building, stranger in tow.

Why hadn't anyone else noticed the crash? Was that their last gift to him? Or was it a hold-out from when he'd been invisible? He was in absolutely no state of mind to answer metaphysical questions, most of them flitting across his thoughts and vanishing just as quickly without a reaction. The huge empty space within him more easily dominated his thoughts.

He called and called, but Scriabin didn't respond, gave no sign of his presence. Could he really be gone? Truly _gone_? Some part of him refused to believe it, kept trying even when it was pointless, but still, there was nothing. Just his own thoughts, no one else's.

They had to take a few breaks here and there to catch their breath, but the two of them eventually finally made it back to Edgar's apartment. With a joint huff of relief, they set the stranger down on the carpet by the front door a little less carefully than they'd originally intended, though hopefully he wouldn't mind. Edgar adjusted the coat so it covered the man more thoroughly again before he thought about what he was doing.

"Mr. Edgar, who is he?" Todd asked again, now clutching his bear tightly to his chest. There were something in his voice, something in the static in his thoughts, all of it pointing at something but it didn't want to come into focus, it refused to clarify, to sink in.

"I don't know. He was just there." Edgar sat back on his heels and for the first time in what felt like ages, took a few long breaths to try and calm himself down. Still detached and numb feeling, wasn't this shock? Scriabin had said something like that once, hadn't he? _Scriabin, where are you? Are you there at all? If you can hear me, please, please say something..._

"What happened?"

"I... I don't know." Edgar ran a hand through his hair, and the normality of that at least helped calm him down a little. "I guess Scriabin was driving and... something tried to attack him? And he ended up crashing... then I woke up in the car." Would Todd believe the story about his meeting with D and K? Did he even need to know?

With each thought a pause, expectant, waiting for his other half to take the opening and the silence was steadfast. If he wanted to question his thoughts and motives, he'd have to do it on his own from now on.

"I don't remember Mr. Scri saying he was going to pick someone up." Todd stared intently at the stranger, his eyes narrowing, and Edgar followed his gaze. Slowly things began to filter through his mind as his heart slowed - the man had a long, angular nose like his own, a square well-defined jawline, and his eyes were shut beneath dark brows. All his hair was gone, and when he looked back towards the door, Edgar could see a trail of hairs leading back the way they'd came. They were dark against his carpet.

Pieces, pieces, but no picture.

"Mr. Edgar... who is this?" Todd's voice was falling, and still he stared at the man with so much focus, his knuckles white in the bear's fur. "Edgar..."

Todd's voice was now a whisper, and it was almost like Edgar knew what he was going to say before it came out of him.

"Is... is he Mr. Scri?"

Edgar stared at the unconscious man, the words revolving in the empty part of his mind. The pieces...

"I don't know," Edgar said. Had he done it? Had his last desperate prayer to God, had it worked? After everything that had happened to him, everything he'd done, had God answered his prayer? ...Or was he just grasping at straws? "We won't know until he wakes up, I guess."

Todd frowned, eyebrows drawn, and he took a step towards the man, still holding his bear close to him. "Mr. Scriabin?" he said, in a shaky whisper. Edgar looked between the two of them, waiting for himself to change the channel and return to reality.

The man's chest moved up and down, and still he breathed.

Todd knelt down beside him, touched his shoulder with one small hand. "Mr. Scriabin, is that you?"

"We don't know it's him," Edgar said, syllables staccato. "It could be anyone." He felt his eyes narrow. "How could he get out of my head anyway?"

_Yes, how could you?_

But nothing.

Finally, the man stirred. First a finger tip, then a tiny nudge of his forearm, a grimace of effort slowly forming on his face. Back to the living, and an answer to all of this was so tantalizingly close. Edgar leaned over him, concern now faded into something else entirely. "Who are you? What are you doing here?" Why did he sound so accusatory?

The man groaned, opened his mouth as if for the first time, a glimpse of a tongue clumsily forming shapes. His forearm twitched again, like he was trying to lift it.

"Eh..." He swallowed, taking another breath, thought in every movement and action. "Ed..."

"Who are you?" Edgar said, quietly.

"Edgar..." With a release of breath like the two syllables had taken everything out of him, and he turned his head towards the sound of Edgar's voice. 

Time slowed down, almost came to a stop as the man carefully, slowly opened his eyes. His pupils were unfocused. His eyes were hazel.

Like his own.

Forever they stayed like that when their eyes found each other, staring, he could feel his heartbeat beneath his fingertips.

"Scriabin...?" Edgar breathed.

He blinked slowly, and his eyes didn't change. 

"Oh my gosh." Todd covered his mouth with one hand. "Mr. Scriabin, is that you? How did you get out of Mr. Edgar?" He clutched Shmee closer to him. "Can you all do that?"

The man was breathing a little faster now, spent from the effort of speaking one word, keeping his eyes open and focused, and Edgar couldn't look away. His eyes, he blinked but slowly and each time when they opened again, they hadn't changed. They were the same each time and for some reason, for some reason that seemed so important.

"Are you Scriabin?" Edgar said, a tinge of urgency in his voice, tension threading through his hands and he wasn't sure why. "Who are you?" A moment, and then he tried to remember what had happened, why this man was even in this state in the first place. "Can you speak at all? Are you hurt?"

"He doesn't look like he's hurt." Todd looked over the man's body at Edgar. "Maybe he's not used to being outside yet." And he looked down at his bear for a few seconds before speaking again. "Shmee says that's pretty likely, that he's not used to all this and he's trying to figure it all out."

"If he is Scriabin." Hope easily, automatically tempered with skepticism; he'd learned that lesson too well to forget it even now. He'd been hurt too many times by his lies... he was not going to get hurt by this one. Not yet. "We don't know for sure."

"Who else could he be?"

"I don't know... but how could it be him? How did he... get out?" Edgar looked to the man for answers, and the man kept staring back at him. Something about his face, his expression, his eyes, something about him kept that tension ratcheted high, and Edgar tightened his grip on his shoulder. "Tell me who you are."

The man looked at him a little longer, breathing through his mouth, then turned his head away, closing his eyes. It was a weak, sloppy movement, but the intention of it was clear. Don't tell me what to do.

Out of all the evidence he had so far, that pointed the most strongly at the man's identity.

"Do you think he's thirsty?" Todd said. "Maybe I can get him some water."

"Maybe," Edgar said without paying attention, and he fought back the urge to just shake the man until he said his name. He _knew_ he had to know, he was doing this on purpose, he was sure of it. Todd left for the kitchen, and Edgar was left with the stranger.

_If you are who I think you are... then maybe I'm going about this the wrong way._

Still, silence within him. No confident posturing, no disregard for his threat. That hole yawned ever wider the more he looked into it. How big could it get?

"If you are Scriabin..." Edgar said, his voice low, "then you owe me a thank you."

The man stiffened under his hand and his eyes snapped open. He turned to face him again, his eyebrows drawing downwards, and it was like a child's first attempt at indignance, which made sense, considering.

He made a garbled series of sounds at first, took a few deep breaths, tried again and this time managed to get something out. "Go t'Hell."

That was it, the final piece in place. The static rising, clearing, and for a moment again he hesitated, wasn't sure if he could believe it, if he wouldn't just get burned again, if this wasn't Scriabin's final cruel joke from beyond this mortal plane. But his reservations weren't strong enough, they couldn't stop his smile or the heady wash of relief.

"You are Scriabin, aren't you." Edgar felt like laughing somehow, strangely light and still so oddly distant. "You made it after all. You made it!" And he couldn't help himself, he may never have this chance again. "You owe me your life, you know that?"

The man shut his eyes and groaned, pained and unhappy, still struggling to get his tongue moving. Edgar's words, in comparison, couldn't seem to come out fast enough. 

"It's true, you know it's true. I saved your life. I saved your life! Or no, even better. You're going to love this." He couldn't remember the last time he'd smiled like this. It almost hurt. "I prayed to God, and _He_ saved your life."

"Bullshit." Finally managed to get something out, radiating frustration at his body's inability to cooperate.

Edgar couldn't stop smiling, and he couldn't slow down. "You owe Him your life now, can you imagine? After everything you said to me about Him? All the lies you told me about Him? He saved you- _we_ saved you. _I_ saved your life. I _saved_ you." An excited breath, almost giddy and more than anything at that moment, he wished he could know how Scriabin felt, what must have been going through his mind right now. Edgar did it for once, Edgar said he would save someone and he _did it_."No, I saved your life _twice_, I actually helped you start breathing at first. You _owe_ me, Scriabin."

"No." A long groan and a wincing grimace, and the man clumsily lifted his arms to set his hands over his eyes. "I refuse."

"You must be Scriabin." Edgar leaned back to give him some space, still smiling. He'd almost forgotten what it felt like to feel good, genuinely _good_, after all this time. "I don't know anyone else that'd react like that."

Something nudged Edgar's shoulder, and after a start, he turned and saw it was just Todd, who had a somewhat disconcerted look on his face. How much of that had he heard?

"I..." the man said, in-between breaths. "I'm alive."

"You _are_ alive." Edgar took the glass from Todd's hand, and the boy knelt down beside him. "I don't know how you get in so much trouble and still get out of it every time."

"Mr. Scriabin?" Todd ventured, and the man moved his hands for a second to look at him.

"Oh... hey, kid," he said, vaguely puzzled.

"Are you okay?"

A moment, and he replaced his hands. Hiding his eyes from them, of course. With each pause came a deep breath. "I always thought... this'd be more dignified."

"I'd imagine. No doubt you had a flashy entrance in mind, one that'd fit right in with that movie of yours. Didn't think I'd be saving _you_, huh?" Edgar couldn't help a smirk, and Scriabin, it had to be him, it must have been him, it all came together, he groaned again. "Life is very cruel."

"Kick a man when he's down, why don't you..." 

"No idea who I would've learned that from."

"Fuck off."

"Hey, not in front of Todd." He couldn't see his eyes but he was sure Scriabin was rolling them. "Do you think you can sit up? You should probably drink something..."

"I don't need your help." Still breathless, the act of speaking taking a great deal of attention and focus, and with a huff of effort, he managed to roll to one side, away from them. "I can take care of myself..."

"Of course you can." Edgar rolled his eyes.

"Don't need you..." His words were faltering - maybe moving as much as he had hadn't been a good idea. Edgar set the glass down and reached out, threading a hand through the gap between Scriabin's neck and the floor to pull him up. 

"Come on. You're not lying here all day."

Scriabin didn't want to be moved or touched, but his command over his new body was feeble at best. It was surprisingly easy to pull him into a sitting position, although his head fell forward when he was up. His neck wasn't used to supporting the weight just yet - not entirely a surprise. After a bit of maneuvering, Edgar managed to get Scriabin's head to rest against his shoulder, so at least that'd take _some_ stress off his new muscles. At no point during the process was Scriabin pleased with any of it, and he made that clear enough through the various sounds he made.

"How did you get out, Mr. Scriabin?" Todd asked. 

"Yes, how did you?" After everything he'd done to him, he couldn't help but needle him now. A little bit of payback for the constant torment that he'd put him through. Scriabin grunted in irritation.

"I don't know," he said. "It's complicated. Who knows... why they do anything..."

"Why who does anything?"

"Everyone down there... the system people, whatever." Exhausted with each word. A moment, and his mouth twitched into a small smile. "Guess I was... too great to let go. Had to move me... somewhere else."

"Wow." Todd sounded genuinely impressed. "I didn't know anyone could do something like that."

He could feel Scriabin preening under Todd's attention. "I'm just special, I suppose."

_Like you had anything to do with it. It was thanks to me you got out._

Yet, even though he had him with him right here in his arms, even though he knew exactly where he was, that he'd survived, that he was _free_, still, the hole within him refused to close. Sure, Scriabin had made it out of him alive, he'd survived against all odds somehow, but again Edgar wondered, how much had he taken with him when he left?

Scriabin may have still been alive, but he wasn't a part of him anymore... and he never would be, again. He'd never hear Scriabin's voice in his mind again.

And by all rights, that thought should have made him happy, should have had him jumping for joy at finally being free from him, but instead... he kept calling out for him, he kept expecting to hear his voice and with each round of silence, the loss became that much more acute.

And his new voice, in his new body... it didn't sound the same.

Todd looked to him, and his eyes widened. "Wait, Mr. Edgar, the monster can't come out of you too, can it?"

"No, no." What an awful thought, and he could feel Scriabin tense against him. "Definitely not. I don't think we have to worry about that monster any more. It's all done now."

"What's all done?"

"I was... I guess I was falling, sort of." How to explain this? He couldn't remember how much he'd told Todd before, his memories of that period were so blurry. Had Scriabin taken some of those with him as well? They were so intertwined... when they were pulled apart, where had they decided to make the incisions? At that points, along what junctures had they decided that this would be Edgar's and this would be Scriabin's? "But I landed and it's over now. Things'll be okay."

Todd looked confused by his explanation, and he didn't really blame him. It wasn't very good.

"I can tell you more about it later, when I'm... when we're both a bit more awake."

"What about Mr. Scri?"

"Don't call me that..."

"Well..." Edgar looked down at him, and he sighed. "He's got a lot to learn."

He caught the sound of a siren far away - looked like the remnants of his invisibility had finally run their course. He had a million questions to ask Scriabin, so many repercussions of this turn of events to deal with, but he forced his thoughts away, forced himself to switch gears for just a while. "Do you think you can sit up on your own?"

Scriabin made an affirmative noise and Edgar reminded himself that of course he'd do that, he'd never admit weakness about anything no matter what the circumstance. All his weight still rested against his body; he never could trust him.

"Alright, I have to go take care of what you did to my car." He meant it to be teasing but an honest touch of irritation made it into it. This wasn't going to be fun. Scriabin grumbled but didn't say anything easily discernable. "Todd, do you think you can keep an eye on him for me? It shouldn't take too long, hopefully."

"Okay." Todd nodded, then pointed at his chest. "Are you gonna take care of all the blood first?"

"What?" Edgar blinked and looked down. Dark red stained his shirt around Scriabin's bare shoulder. Right, the after-effects of the crash, when his body had been restored. The blood still remained even though the body healed? How did resets even work, anyway?

Well, it didn't matter. It was over and done with and he was here, that's what was important. No time to think about that. He pushed Scriabin off of him a little, felt him waver underneath his hands, and gestured Todd over closer with his head.

"Right, that. Here, try to keep him from falling over, alright?" Todd slipped into his place, although he was too small to support Scriabin's weight that easily. Just as Edgar thought, his comments had pricked Scriabin's pride, and he was struggling actively now to keep himself upright on his own power. Good, that should make things a little easier for Todd, at least.

His audience was gone... everything he did in his head echoed on an abandoned stage. Once he was sure Todd and Scriabin were stable, he stood up and went to his room to get changed. Had to focus on the present, had to focus on what had to be done, had to take care of things, once everything was finished then he could take the time to actually think about everything, then he could...

His thoughts dwindled and fell, empty lines cast into barren waters. He waited, even when he told himself he shouldn't, when he reminded himself, reprimanded himself, that there was nothing there anymore. He was gone, Scriabin was gone. Well, he wasn't gone, he was here, but he wasn't... here, anymore. 

How could Scriabin have survived and died at the same time? He'd hated him for so long, he'd wished for this, he'd wished for this silence, this normality, and now it highlighted all of the emptiness. He'd adapted too well, how could he feel like this? Frustration at his emotions did nothing to change them, and he'd never been good at sorting or understanding them. He walked back into the living room in fresh clothes, walked past Scriabin sitting on the floor, alive and breathing on his own, and he missed him, he missed him more than he ever thought himself capable of, and he was right there.

_Stop thinking about it, stop thinking about it. Do what you have to do._

Edgar went downstairs, back outside and he found a crowd of people standing around the crash, silent and staring, and something about it sent a chill through him, reminded him of something from long ago. He couldn't quite place it, his thoughts still scattered and light, but it made him feel uneasy.

He went back to the car and looked it over as the emergency vehicles came down the street. It didn't look like Scriabin had anything inside it, aside from the normal debris that had always been in his car. He'd just felt motivated to drive somewhere, and that somewhere was apparently the lamp post. Had that been his own thought, or had the monsters that plagued the lock system convinced him to do it?

Did it matter now? It was all over, he was free, he was free but the thought refused to settle. He saw his glasses resting on the hood of the car... he reached over and picked them up, and found that they were shockingly intact. For once, had his glasses survived? He put them on with a sigh of relief. Well, one less thing to worry about at least. He'd take what he could get at this point.

The police and fire department were there for the injured, and when they saw that Edgar was fine, they were a bit puzzled, particularly considering the extent of the wreck and the blood spattered across the steering wheel and ground. After that, the main concern came from the damages to the lamp post, which likely meant that there'd be another power outage again. He was starting to get used to them at this point.

Questions, questions. He answered them as best he could. The car was his, of course. He must have blacked out while driving. No, he wasn't drunk, and they could test him if they wanted to, which they did. He was clean, just as he thought, and they seemed all the more confused, but in the end, there wasn't much they could do. Tow trucks were called to cart away the wreckage, they got the information they needed for their report, and they told Edgar to call his insurance company to deal with the rest of it, which he agreed to readily enough. Off they went, and the crowd dispersed, and he stared at the dented lamp post for a few minutes, his mind curiously blank, before he reminded himself that he wasn't done yet.

Back upstairs, and Todd and Scriabin were sitting just where he left them. Todd had one hand on Scriabin's back, but it seemed that he'd gotten enough control to sit upright on his own now. That was something, Edgar thought without any emotion, as he walked past them to the phone.

"Is everything okay, Mr. Edgar?" Todd said, and Edgar didn't look back at the two of them.

"It's alright, I took care of it. I'm just going to call some people about the car."

"Okay..." Although he didn't sound exactly soothed. He heard a voice whispering, was it Scriabin's? Something about it still didn't sound right, still rang a warning in his head that this was a stranger, there was a stranger in his house, what was he doing?

Put it out of mind. The car.

The conversation took longer than he would have liked, but in the end, he couldn't complain about the results. His insurance would cover most of the cost of a new car, and they'd give him a rental car until he found a replacement, not that they seemed particularly happy about doing either of those things. In the meantime at least he wouldn't be car-less, and he glanced at the calendar on the wall as he hung up. He'd written something down on it, though he couldn't remember at all doing so. Leave of absence... had he taken a leave of absence from something? That's right, it filtered through his thoughts now... he'd asked to take a leave of absence from work for a while when things were really falling apart. It looked like it'd be up in a few days.

So... that was that. His car taken care of, his job taken care of. It was strange how ready he was to leave his life behind, he'd cut all connections to prepare for death and it didn't take very long at all to pick up where he'd left off. 

_Honestly, Mr. Vargas, were you even using your life?_

He looked back at Todd and Scriabin on the floor. They were talking to each other quietly - he could see how frequently Scriabin was pausing to breathe, still getting used to using his lungs. 

No, nothing was ever that easy. He still had a bigger problem to take care of.

"Alright, that's done for now." Edgar came back over to them, sat beside Scriabin who gave him a wary look. He'd always been annoyed before by Scriabin hiding his eyes, but now that they were completely visible and unchangeable, it just made him feel... uncomfortable. Like he was intruding, doing something wrong. "You're lucky my insurance will cover the damage, so at least we won't be out of a car for too long."

"That's good!" Todd said, smiling. "Are you sure you're not hurt? You had so much blood on you..."

"Oh... no, I'm fine." Edgar touched a hand to his chest. "I don't..." How to explain this? "I don't know how, but I'm alright. I'll just have to wash my clothes later."

Todd tilted his head, and Edgar looked at Scriabin... or the man that was supposed to be him, anyway. He could see the whole picture, he could see _him_ but still... something was wrong. They looked similar, as one might expect, as he would have guessed they would, but not the way they used to. Not as closely as they once had. Scriabin had always made himself attractive whenever he'd seen him in his mental visualizations, but here in the real world, he was simply... average. And in that way, perhaps, he and Edgar were more closely matched to each other than they once had been. Both average, perhaps odd-looking men, even, but it didn't seem to fit him at all. He was so used to his vain posturing, and this... it didn't look like how he'd want to look.

They had the same nose, the same face shape, the same jaw, the same features, but not as mirror images anymore, they didn't quite match. They weren't twins, but... when he looked at him, he saw himself in a fuzzy way. Like... they were related. Brothers. That would have made sense, but it didn't look right. They had the same color eyes, and that didn't look right, and he didn't have any hair, and that didn't look right. Scriabin always had long hair, he always had his glasses, he always looked so calm and composed and in control and right now, he looked confused and awkward and clumsy and not at all like him, some part of him kept saying this isn't him, it can't be him in Edgar's head and he couldn't make it stop.

And his voice, Scriabin's voice didn't sound the same either, he knew it so intimately that he could never mistake it for anything else and the voice this man used, the voice this man had, it wasn't it. It wasn't right. None of the words came out right, the inflection was wrong, the tone was wrong, the pitch was wrong, it was all wrong.

Was this really him? Was all this wrongness just the result of a new body? Was this really just a stranger somehow, or was it really him? Was this what he'd have to get used to now, was this what he'd have to accept? It wasn't him but it was him, how was he supposed to resolve this?

"First..." Edgar struggled out from under his doubt and conflicting feelings to speak, and Scriabin blinked at him. "We should get you some clothes."

It took him a few seconds to decide how to react, then Scriabin huffed and tried to roll his eyes, looking away. He couldn't quite get the motion right - as clumsy as a newborn, but with an unnatural alien quality to it, an adult human body not quite working as it should. Edgar stood up and walked away, and it was easier to think when he wasn't near him, when he couldn't see him.

Endless echoing in his head, staring out at an empty audience. He felt slightly guilty for it, then afraid for feeling guilty, and yet nothing happened. Nothing happened in his head, no one yelled at him for it, no punishment forthcoming. He was free to feel whatever he wanted now, but still his thoughts came hesitantly, habits burned too deep to easily break. _Scriabin...?_

Of course he wouldn't respond, he wasn't in him anymore. He was no longer connected to him, they weren't connected anymore. That umbilical cord between them was cut, and Scriabin was born now, and he couldn't hear him, they'd never hear each other again. No more feelings, no more internal conversations, no more shared dreams, nothing. Only the man sitting in the living room, all wrong, all wrong.

He should be happy about this, he should be happy to be free, he should be happy. He should be beside himself that Scriabin couldn't hurt him anymore, couldn't tear him apart anymore, couldn't constantly judge him or berate him or possess him anymore, he should be happy. He should be _happy_, repeated it to himself over and over, he should be happy, he was free. He was _free_, they were both free and _alive_, what more could he ask for? This is what he wanted, this is what they wanted.

But he just felt empty, empty and longing for something, longing for something he didn't want to give a name, for something he didn't want to admit.

Edgar pulled out some clothes from a dresser, folded them carefully into a neat pile, knelt on the floor beside them, and his eyes drifted upwards to the toy standing by his bed, frozen in its familiar pose.

He couldn't take his eyes away from it for a few minutes, like he was waiting for it to do something, but it didn't move.

Just a toy.

He stood up, took the clothes with him, then paused. Something missing, there was something missing...

When he came back into the living room, Todd and Scriabin were talking quietly again, Scriabin holding the glass of water with both hands and taking very small, tiny sips. At least he was drinking something.

"Took you long enough," Scriabin said when Edgar sat down by them again, then coughed hoarsely. Perhaps he'd been drinking too fast. "Better be something good for all that time."

"It's better than you being naked." Was Scriabin trying to tease him, argue with him as he usually did? It didn't sound right, some part of him thought _who are you, who is this guy? Who does he think he is, talking to me like that? I don't know you_ and he kept telling that part to shut up, it wasn't helping. This was Scriabin now, he had to accept that.

He had to accept that.

"Are you going to need help with this?" Edgar held out some underwear and pants, and Scriabin frowned at him.

"I don't need your help with anything anymore." He didn't notice as Todd took the glass away from him before he forgot he was holding it. "I got my own body now, if you haven't noticed, so I don't need your charity. Hmmph, what'll you think then, huh? What're you going to think when poor Scriabin doesn't need your, mmph, charity anymore, the goodness of your heart..."

He was struggling to put them on beneath the coat, and Edgar sighed. Scriabin would rather die than admit he needed help with anything. At least that actually felt right. He picked up the edge of the coat closest to him and looked to Todd.

"Can you hold this up for us?"

"I don't need your help!"

"Don't listen to him, can you hold it up?"

"I can do this by myself!"

"Uh... sure." Todd set his bear down and stood up, holding the coat's edges, and at least that would work as a barrier between them and him. He didn't have to see any of this.

"How long do you think it'll be before you get the hang of this body thing?" Edgar said, shifting behind him a little so he could get a better vantage point, and Scriabin didn't have the coordination or strength to push him away, although it was clear he was trying.

"I don't know! It's not like I've done this before." With clear hate, getting a bit better at emphasizing his words as he used to. "This is a little new to me." Sarcasm, that was a good sign. "Forgive me for not being an expert right away."

"Hmph, if anyone would be an expert on their first try, I'd think it'd be you. You're never bad at anything, are you?" Edgar steadfastly refused to think about what he was doing and kept his eyes firmly focused on a completely unobjectionable piece of carpet nearby, using his peripheral vision to guide his hands. _Do not think about this. Do not. Do not look. Do not compare. Do not think._ And nothing in his mind argued with him, so the veil stayed. When he got the underwear on he breathed a sigh of relief. It should be easier from this point on, at least. Hopefully.

"Why don't you get fucking torn out of your body and put in another one and see how good you're at it, huh?" The curse word didn't sound right, said too carefully, still exploring how his voice sounded. "So much for empathy."

"Like you'd want my empathy even if you had it." This rhythm felt a little familiar, although the emotional connection wasn't quite right. Edgar was saying the words, Edgar was engaging, he was arguing, but there wasn't any investment, it didn't feel real. Like he was going through the motions, like he was supposed to do this with him, like he was expected to, like he had to, but it wasn't real. This wasn't real, somewhere, it wasn't really him, and he wasn't really...

He wasn't really himself, not...

Not without him...

"True enough." Scriabin grunted as Edgar moved him enough to get his pants on. "Glad to see you're still a dick to me even when we aren't stuck in the same body."

"Your first words to me were 'go to Hell', and I'm the dick?" When he leaned away from him to pick up the shirt, Scriabin was able to keep his balance. Good, he was getting the hang of it. He tapped his arms, and Scriabin huffed and slowly raised them, and Edgar couldn't help a slight smile. "Oh, no, wait, your first word was my name, wasn't it?"

"Go to Hell," Scriabin growled.

He pulled the shirt down over his head, and when it hid him from view, he expected him to have his typical long, messy hair when he saw him again. But no, his scalp was still bare. Wrong wrong wrong, this is all wrong, it kept echoing inside him.

"Alright, Todd, you can lower it now." Edgar scooted back a little. It wasn't his normal outfit of course... Edgar didn't have his normal outfit, Scriabin had taken it from the action figure that had given him his name, but at least their similar body types meant that Edgar's clothes mostly fit him. The black jeans may have been a tad long, but the grey shirt fit well enough.

"Wait, there's one more thing..." Edgar picked up the last object and circled around him. Scriabin's eyes followed him, narrowed and suspicious, then widened as his hands came close. "There, that'll work for now."

Scriabin reached up, his mouth slightly open, and he touched the edges of the pair of sunglasses. He didn't say anything.

"It's a little unsettling seeing your eyes, to be honest." Edgar propped his knees up to rest his arms across them. "This is better."

He could still, if he focused, just make out Scriabin's eyes behind them, but it was enough. The dark lenses hid them mostly from view, and it helped ease the strange knot of conflicting emotion in his chest. Even if nothing else added up properly, at least Scriabin hiding his eyes felt normal. Felt right.

"You saw my...?"

"Of course. You were totally naked, after all."

"Ugh..." Scriabin lowered his head, one hand where it would have been buried in his hair, had he had any. No doubt the loss was made all the more acute for the gesture. "I never wanted you to..."

"You didn't realize it? I guess you're so used to it..."

"Get me a mirror."

"What?"

"A mirror, get me a mirror. I want to know what I look like."

"You sure?" Edgar raised an eyebrow, but Todd had already run off to fulfill his request. "Honestly, I don't think you're going to be anything but disappointed..."

"I don't care. And what do you know about what I want anyway? Maybe it'll be just what I wanted." Scriabin was shaking a little, his voice uneven. Edgar got the impression again that he'd intruded, done something wrong... having his eyes revealed perhaps had affected him more than he could guess. He'd never understood why that was so important to him, but he knew it _was_ important.

"Maybe," Edgar said, and he took the mirror from Todd. "Here."

Scriabin reached out to take the hand mirror with shaking fingers, a weak and unfamiliar grip, and brought it up to look at himself. Edgar could actually see the realization strike home, the crushing disappointment, the betrayal as Scriabin raised his other hand and touched his cheek.

But Edgar couldn't feel it anymore, not like he used to.

"What happened to my hair?!" From his cheek over his scalp, and the emotion in his voice was raw and unhidden. 

Edgar shrugged. "Satan said that sometimes all your hair falls out when you come back..."

"But I didn't _come back_, I _got out _of you-!" Choked. "This shouldn't have happened to me, it should have happened to _you_!" Scriabin shouted at him, throwing the mirror away and burying his face in his hands. "This is all wrong, this isn't- this is your fault, I didn't-..."

The mirror was too sturdy to break easily at least, and Edgar felt a twinge of pity for him, but it wasn't strong. "Scriabin, you're still _alive_. You got your own body and everything, even after all the odds were against it. I'd think you'd be a little more grateful for it."

"But it's not the right one!" Scriabin said through clenched teeth. "I wanted _mine_, I didn't want... I don't want this!"

"Well... yours didn't actually exist. Except in here." Edgar tapped the side of his head, and for a second the urge to draw a connection with his fingertip from there to Scriabin's chest crossed his mind, and he shook it away. Where had that come from? "Maybe they just did the best they could."

"They could've done better!" His voice was breathy and furious. "They could've... they could've at least left my hair..." Despairing, and it broke on the last few words. He shuddered and curled up tighter into himself.

"It'll grow back." Edgar sighed and moved a bit closer to him so he could pat his shoulder. The twinge of pity was getting stronger despite telling himself he should know better. "It's not gone forever, you know. Nny's came back."

"Ugh, don't talk about him. I don't want to hear it."

"It's true though. So yours'll come back. It'll just take a while."

"This isn't fair..."

"What, that you got a chance at life but it isn't exactly what you thought it'd be?" Edgar paused, then snorted. "I'd think we'd both be used to that by now."

"Mr. Scriabin..."

Scriabin looked up and over to Todd, who was holding his bear again.

"What are you going to do now?"

Edgar blinked, and looked at Scriabin, who was staring at his feet.

"You were always talking about leaving before..." Todd said, toying with his bear's ear. "You said you were going to go and never come back, if you ever got the chance... are you going to go now?"

It hadn't occurred to him until that moment that, with the two of them separated, for the first time, Scriabin actually _could _leave. They could actually live their own separate lives, if they wanted to. Scriabin could get up and walk out the door, and he might never see him again.

And the thought had the same unreal and frightening quality as a particularly vivid nightmare.

"Well, I don't think he's going anywhere if he doesn't know how to walk," Edgar said, trying to shake off the implications of the thought, the threat, and Scriabin blinked and came back to the conversation, perhaps as equally struck although it was hard to say. They couldn't reach each other anymore.

"I can walk."

"No you can't."

"Yes I can."

"No you can't."

"Yes I can!"

"Prove it then." Edgar stood up and moved a few steps away. "Come over here."

"Fine!" Scriabin snapped, easily baited, and he set his hands on the floor.

"Be careful, Mr. Scriabin!" Todd took a step back himself, and Scriabin growled.

"Stop being such damn babies, I don't need your help." 

"Language."

"Shut up! I'm going to go over there and I'm going to punch you, we'll see who's so smug then."

Scriabin spent several seconds staring at the floor, testing his arms, his hands, where to rest his weight, adjusting himself before he managed to get his legs beneath him, straighten them slowly while keeping his hands on the floor as long as possible. His fingertips left last, and he was so focused on his work that he didn't notice or acknowledge how Todd stood by him, held out his arms as if he could catch him when he fell.

_He really is a thoughtful kid,_ the thought briefly crossed Edgar's mind. _Not that Scriabin'll appreciate it._

No response.

Scriabin straightened up fully, held his arms out to keep his balance, and waited for a few seconds until the wobbling stopped. He turned to look at Edgar, his eyes narrowed, although he couldn't tell if it was from anger or determination. Probably both.

He lifted one foot, set it down, lifted another, then the momentum caught up with him and he stumbled. Edgar thought something like that would happen, and he was already there with his arms open to catch him before he hit the ground. He could feel the hard edges of his sunglasses pressing into his chest.

"God damn it!" Scriabin's voice was muffled in his shirt. He felt strange in his arms... not like how he'd felt in the dreams they'd shared when they'd touched at all. Weight in different places, his skin felt different, his body heat, his breathing. How had he known Scriabin so well, to notice such small differences and be so disconcerted by them?

"Your first words, and now your first steps. I wish I had a camcorder." He couldn't help himself - when would he have the chance to do this to him again?

"Shut _up_!" Scriabin raised one fist and tried to punch his chest, but his current position gave him little leverage. "God dammit, I hate you!"

"Mr. Edgar, don't be mean," Todd said from nearby. "It's gotta be hard for him."

Edgar's smile faded, and he could feel a slight tremor through Scriabin's body at the words as well. Mean, mean, that wasn't his trait, that was Scriabin's, that was Scriabin's personality trait, not his own, why was he...

He'd only meant it as light teasing, but now he wondered. Looked back over his reactions, what he'd said, how he'd treated him and it didn't fit, didn't match, didn't... seem like him, like them. Outside of himself again, distant and confused and unsure of how he felt, and acting... was he acting like him?

Where in him - in his soul, in his mind, in his emotions, his personality, his self - had they made the cuts to take Scriabin out? What had he taken with him, and what had he left?

What would fill that hole he had left? Scriabin's traits had come from somewhere, hadn't they? 

And Scriabin... what was he feeling? Edgar had a hole where Scriabin had been, but for Scriabin... he'd spent his entire life inside of Edgar, seeing the world through his eyes, filtering it through his body, involuntarily tied into every aspect of what made Edgar conscious and sentient and alive. And now... he was alone just as he was.

He hadn't thought about how separation would feel to _him_ at all.

No doubt Scriabin would have cursed at him for forgetting about him, for ignoring him; called him selfish and self-centered and torn him apart for it, but the connection between them remained dead, he didn't say anything. He didn't know, how could he? 

At least Edgar knew now that he could still feel bad about this kind of thing, even without Scriabin's help.

"You're right, Todd, I'm sorry," Edgar said, and he sighed. Scriabin hadn't moved from his arms, and he took the chance to pat his back a little. "How are you feeling, anyway?"

"Don't pity me," he said, still muffled, but he didn't move. Could he? Maybe he was still trying to get his sense of balance.

"I'm not, I'm honestly curious. This is a pretty big change for both of us, isn't it?" Edgar said, looking down at him. Still, he looked like a stranger. Nothing added up right.

He waited, but Scriabin didn't say anything. Maybe he'd have to make the first move.

"I know that I... feel strange." A bit awkwardly. How much to say? Where to even start? This was still Scriabin he was talking about, even if he was in a rather enfeebled state. It was unwise to expose any weakness to him for any reason. "Well... not how I thought I would feel if this ever happened, anyway."

Scriabin hmmphed, but didn't move away from him.

"What do you mean, Mr. Edgar?" 

"It's just..." Edgar tilted his head in thought, words were so difficult to come by. "Like something's missing, even though you're still here. It's hard to explain."

"I get it." Todd nodded, and he got the impression that he probably did, somehow. "What about you, Mr. Scriabin?"

Edgar was careful about revealing weaknesses and in return, Scriabin was the same way. Mirroring each other yet again, and he couldn't exactly blame him for it. Scriabin refused to say anything, only making another irritated sound and pushing his head harder against Edgar's chest.

More than anything, at that moment Edgar wanted to reach out, to find Scriabin's emotions against his own, know he was there and gain some kind of understanding of what he was feeling, but he couldn't. He tried to remember how he'd done it before, how he'd found those lines and followed them, how he'd tracked him, and it was like trying to remember what muscles he'd used to fly in a dream. It was gone, the ability, the knowledge, all of it gone like it'd never existed. How easy was it to forget without him?

He was right here, and he'd never felt so far away. 

Was this only a fraction of how Scriabin might have felt...?

Edgar sighed, his eyes closed, still trying somewhere, unconsciously, instinctually, to reach him to no avail, to hear his voice impossibly, and Scriabin didn't say anything. He just stayed where he was. And something in him tightened his arms around him, pulled him close and held him for a few seconds, and he could hear him make a short startled sound at the hug. 

_Didn't expect that, did you? _Faintly, to no one, and he wasn't sure he could put a word on what had motivated him to do it himself, other than he thought he should do it. And if he'd expected some kind of clarity from the gesture, some understanding, some sort of connection between them, it didn't come. A body against his own, his breathing, his heartbeat picking up slightly, the twinge from the hard edge of the glasses, but that was all.

They'd never be as close as they once were.

Something stepped into the void, broke the loop, reminded him that there were other things to think about, to do. He had to accept it and move on. Accept it and move on, he'd always been good at accepting things and he needed to accept this as well. He had to do something other than just dwell. Right?

It wasn't Scriabin's voice, just a pale imitation... perhaps his own, so desperate to hear him that it played at what he might have said. No, he had to stop thinking about it. This was what they had wanted. They were free. Accept it.

Scriabin did not return the hug, and it might have been because he didn't know how, or it might have been for a thousand other reasons. It was always so hard to tell with him. He didn't try to move away from him though, and when Edgar did it himself, pulled away and kept his hands on Scriabin's arms to keep him balanced, he could see plainly that more than anything, Scriabin just looked confused.

"Well, you're here now. There's nothing anyone can do about that. So... we should probably start figuring out what to do from here, right?" In a faint echo of their previous relationship, asking him for advice.

Instead, Scriabin kept staring at him. Edgar continued anyway.

"C'mon, sit down in the kitchen and we'll start working things out. I know I'll feel better when I've worked out a plan."

_You remember, don't you? You heard me do it countless times, watched me do it in memories, perhaps. You remember, don't you?_

And the thought occurred to him, maybe Scriabin didn't. What memories had he taken with him? His own, or Edgar's as well? How many times had they overlapped? Would he even know if he was missing a memory? 

No, he couldn't dwell on it. Move forward, move forward. 

_Who are you, without me?_

The thought struck without warning and he winced internally, braced himself for the screaming he knew would be coming, and... nothing. The thought just hung there, waiting for him to expand on it, and Scriabin still stared at him, completely oblivious as to what had just crossed his mind. 

This was going to take some getting used to, and even though Scriabin couldn't hear, couldn't say anything about it, still the thought hung in a thick miasma of guilt and fear for it even existing.

_Who are you, without me?_

It wouldn't leave, though.

Edgar took one of his hands with his own and set the other on his shoulder. Scriabin still looked confused, like he was unable to understand what was happening, and Edgar took a step towards the kitchen, leading him as best he could. "Come on, it's not that hard."

That seemed enough to galvanize him into action, although he spoke softly, like something was distracting him. 

"I don't need your help... I can do this on my own."

"Yes, yes, of course." Although he didn't take his hands away, and Scriabin didn't try to break away from him. This wasn't like him at all, but it wasn't like anything like this had ever happened before.

What was he thinking about? What was it like for him to think without Edgar there?

They got close to the kitchen table before Scriabin finally let go of his hand, moved to walk on his own and Edgar let him go. He made it to the chair alright, went through the process of sitting down in the same unnatural, childlike way that made his chest hurt for some reason, and Edgar turned back to the living room.

"Should get something to take notes... I have a feeling we're going to need them." Mostly to himself, and he expected the mental rejoinder.

"Huh, how typical." A brief laugh, and it was sort of like when he'd spoken through the toy. Sort of. Not exactly, not quite right. "Edgar the conscientious, ever so organized and neat."

"Nothing wrong with a list," he said, and got a strange sense of deja vu. Had he said that once before? He couldn't remember. He picked up the legal pad in his living room and a pen from the bookshelf before heading back in, where he saw that Todd had hopped up onto another chair beside Scriabin. Apparently, he wanted to be included.

Well, he didn't see any harm to it, other than Todd getting bored. He had a feeling this was going to be tedious and long, but at least it was something they'd probably only have to work through once.

He sat down across from him, and Scriabin followed him with his eyes. Even his facial expressions seemed to take a few seconds to manifest, like they took conscious effort. Edgar could not get used to him without his hair at all. Still, everything about him seemed wrong. It had to be him, and still he wondered if it really was.

"Ready, schoolboy?" Scriabin said, as he carefully leaned his head against one hand. At least he was trying to act like himself... or who he once had been. Who was he now?

"You'll see, someday you'll thank me for these." Edgar tapped the pen against his lower lip. "There's a lot to go through."

"Like what?" Todd asked.

"Well..." Edgar looked up at Scriabin again, and he frowned. "This raises a lot of... practical problems."

He could just make out him rolling his eyes. "Is that what's been on your mind this whole time, all the 'practical' problems? I finally get my own body, and all you can think of is where I'm going to sleep?"

That wasn't even close to all the things that he was thinking about, and while before he'd assume that Scriabin was just mocking him, now he wasn't so sure. Did he really think that? They were so impossibly close before, that distance couldn't have made them such strangers already, right? No, he was overthinking this. He had to focus.

"You _are_ going to have to sleep somewhere. At some point, someone has to think about it." Edgar pointed at him with the pen, trying to keep his thoughts in line. Had Scriabin helped him with that too? No, focus. "There's a lot to think about right now."

"Like what?" Todd said, again, and he realized he'd been sidetracked.

"Where to start..." Edgar turned back to the legal pad and began writing. "You just appeared out of nowhere, right?"

"I don't know, what do you think?" Scriabin raised an eyebrow, bored. "You were there."

Edgar ignored him. "Which means that you don't have any kind of identification or history." A pause, and he looked up. "A history that isn't mine, anyway."

Scriabin just stared at him.

"So if you just appeared out of thin air without any clothes or anything, and you didn't exist before, that means you don't have any ID... no driver's license, no state ID, no student ID, no nothing." Edgar kept writing. "And you don't have a history either, so you don't have a school record, or a birth certificate, or a social security number..."

He looked up, and Scriabin had one hand over his mouth, his brow furrowed in apparent thought. Had this not occurred to him?

"So... you're going to have to start completely from scratch, which isn't going to be easy." Edgar rubbed the side of his temple. Society in general did_ not _like people that were unaccounted for like this. "But we've got to start somewhere. So... what's your name?"

"What?"

"What's your name, now?" Edgar looked up. "Technically, you could change your name to anything you want now. Nothing's going to stop you." _And I was the one who gave you yours in the first place. Do you still want it?_

Scriabin could not hear him, could not yell at him for thinking that he would. He only looked confused at the question. He opened his mouth to say something, closed it, was silent for a few seconds. His words came slowly.

"I don't think you'd ever be able to get used to calling me anything but Scriabin."

Of course, his typical roundabout answer, although it took him longer than it normally would have. He thought he'd say something like that. "Scriabin isn't a first name, it's a last name."

"It worked in the movie," Todd said, kicking his legs. 

"This is real life, not a movie." Edgar looked back across the table. "I remember reading about the composer, I think his first name was Alexander. Something like that. Want to be an Alex?"

Scriabin leaned back and crossed his arms, frowning. It wasn't as awkward a motion as some of his others, done unconsciously and perhaps a bit more smoothly than before. "Scriabin."

Edgar rolled his eyes, not that he hadn't expected that response. "Well, keep it in mind. Now, is it..." And his voice caught unexpectedly, the thought crossing his mind with the same feeling as touching the edge of a deep hole with his foot while walking. He stopped, looked down, chewed on the cap of the pen for a few seconds, tried to fight it away before he looked up again. "...Will it be Scriabin Vargas?"

A question and an offer all at once, so many implications he couldn't sort through them all, and he saw Scriabin's eyes widen through his glasses, his eyebrows raise.

He could say something, offer another name, suggest something else, clarify but instead Edgar stared at him, waited. Reached out for him, heard nothing, and he wondered if Scriabin was doing the same, reaching out to him and he just didn't know, couldn't hear.

Eventually, Scriabin spoke without much strength, looking to one side. "Your brother..."

It hung in the air between them for a time before Edgar looked back down to the legal pad; he touched the pen to the paper to loop it in meaningless circles. "There's no one else left in ou- the family who'd be able to disprove it... there's only me..."

A moment, and he darkened the lines. "And you..."

When he looked up, Scriabin was staring down at the table and Todd was looking between the two of them, increasingly antsy for a response.

"'So many things could be different if I wasn't alone'..." Scriabin said, still looking down, and his tone was familiar, even through his strange new body. The voice he used to imitate Edgar, mock him. And he remembered, he could remember when he'd said that, when the storm raged around them and they were locked into each other, when he'd made the decision that may have brought him to this point, that let him get hurt in so many ways but led him here, led them both here. Scriabin looked up and spoke without emotion. "If you insist."

Edgar hadn't insisted at all, but it didn't matter. Around in roundabout ways for his own cryptic reasons, this he knew, and this he could handle.

"Scriabin Vargas then." He knew this meant a lot, this meant so much as he wrote the name down, but he couldn't sort through it all right now. He had to stay focused, there were still so many things left to deal with. One step forward, keep going. "At least that'll be an easy explanation for why you're here."

_Are you going to stay here with me? Will you actually leave?_

No mental response, when was he going to get used to that? Scriabin huffed and looked to one side.

"Not having any identification or history is going to make things difficult though..." Edgar started chewing on the pen again, staring down hard at the paper. "It's going to be a nightmare finding you a job."

"A job?" Scriabin raised an eyebrow, and under other circumstances, he might have found his baffled tone amusing.

"Yes, a job." Edgar closed his eyes for a few seconds with a sigh. "I make enough to support myself, but not enough for two people." A moment, and he looked at Todd. "Well, two people and a child, for however long you want to stay here, Todd."

An awkward silence ensued, Todd staring down at the table at the thought of his parents, and Scriabin staring at him with his eyes narrowed. Now what? Even Scriabin berating him for killing the conversation would have been a welcome break from the quiet, but nothing came. 

Eventually Edgar coughed and looked back to the sheet of paper, struggling to find a way to renew the discussion without success. Why was it so difficult to think clearly? This wouldn't have given him nearly so much trouble normally, and instead everything, everything felt wrong, everything felt...

What was it that K had said... that instead of a replacement, they'd just split in half? Was that it? Had taking Scriabin out of him... broken something?

"Is this really what we're going to talk about?" Scriabin said, slowly, and with a great deal of focus put into his words. Trying very hard to recreate his old rhythm. "After everything that's happened, all you care about is taking care of your car, and your job, and making sure I'm taken care of and squared away? Then what, Edgar?" His voice was smoothing, less forced now, returning to some semblance of his older self. The Scriabin he knew. "Are you going to put me in a neat little box and stack me with the rest of your things in your closet and forget everything that's happened? Filed away in your rolodex, never to be looked at again, 'taken care of', meaning 'now it's not my problem'? Is that what you're going to do?"

Edgar tilted his head slightly, brow furrowed, and the first thing that came out was "No," although it was more puzzled than annoyed as he'd intended. Where'd this attack come from? How had Scriabin come to that conclusion? That wasn't even close to... how could they be so far apart? This felt like a dream, nothing made sense. "Why would you even- that's not at all what I was trying to do, I'm just trying to sort through all the practical problems first, I _said_ that. What do _you _want to discuss then?"

Scriabin again looked as if he was going to say something, then changed his mind, keeping his silence and arms crossed. Since when was he ever quiet? Edgar felt annoyed, something that kept building in a growing spiral inside him - annoyed that he felt this distant, this awkward, this disconnected from him, that Scriabin wasn't right, he was a stranger and he kept acting strangely and looking wrong and this wasn't right, this shouldn't have been happening. It shouldn't have been like this. "Fine, do you want to talk about the deeper stuff then? All the metaphysical bullshit that's been going on? Fine, let's talk about that then." Even there, he didn't know where to start, and the spiral in him pointed towards the last accusation he could remember. "How much about yourself did you know and not tell me?"

He could barely make out Scriabin's eyes narrowing behind his sunglasses, the grip on his arms tightening. "Edgar, honestly. Do you think asking me will get you answers now any more than it did before? Why should I tell you anything?"

"If you're not going to talk to me, then why did you even bring it up?!" Edgar slapped the pad back down on the table, and Todd jumped.

"I didn't bring it up, you did." Scriabin pointed out.

"You're the one who doesn't want to talk about 'practical' stuff." Edgar pointed back at him. "So what _do _you want to talk about then? Your feelings? Do you want to talk about how you feel right now?"

Scriabin looked away, frowning more intensely now, although Edgar didn't give him a chance to respond before continuing. He pressed a hand to his chest, anger chasing his words. "Because _I _feel pretty shitty right now, okay? Everything about this feels completely wrong and I don't know how to deal with that, and you're not there anymore to tell me what's going on, and-" He realized what he said and cut himself off, trying not to notice how Scriabin had snapped his head back to look at him at the words. "You're not helping, not that you ever have. I guess that should feel normal but even that doesn't, this is all really..." Frustration broke through his words, and Edgar buried his hands in his hair, staring down at the table. Finally his words slowed a little. "This is all really f-..." He glanced at Todd. "This is all really messed up."

There was an awkward silence.

"You don't feel right?" Scriabin said, a bit tentatively, and Edgar looked up. Something about him looked tense.

"No, of course I don't," Edgar snapped.

A moment as Scriabin considered this, raising one hand to his mouth in thought in what looked more like an imitation of the gesture than anything else. Everything about him looked so unnatural.

"What, does that surprise you?" Edgar said, mostly lashing out at him, but then he focused on the thought more closely, raising an eyebrow. "How did you think I'd feel about you getting out?"

Scriabin didn't say anything, staring down at the table, and Edgar wasn't sure if his silence was to deliberately antagonize him or if he really was taking this long in considering the question, and for some reason it made him angry. 

"No smart comment for that? No witty comeback? No insult?" _Are you really even Scriabin?_ The thought crossed his mind, but thankfully he had enough self-control to keep it from coming out. Still, a pulse of fear went through him, anticipation for a mental attack that wasn't coming, and he struggled to find another thought, some way to pin down all this, the right question to make things normal again. Instead... "Why is this so hard for you?" _Why is this so hard for me?_

Scriabin glared at him, frown deepening, and still he didn't say anything, and still he wasn't sure if it was out of spite or if he really didn't know what to say. Todd looked over to Edgar and met his eyes, and there was a measure of concern there that helped the spiral inside of him stop and coil back. "He's never had his own brain before, Mr. Edgar. It's probably hard to think with it 'cause it's so new."

Edgar blinked - the thought honestly hadn't occurred to him - and when he glanced at Scriabin, he found he was also staring at Todd with an odd expression on his face. Surprise? Confusion? Realization? His features were new to him, unfamiliar, a stranger, how could he read him?

"Is that it?" Edgar said, curious and without the edge it had before, and Scriabin looked back to him again. "Is it hard thinking..." Should he say it? There was a warning somewhere in him not to, that it wouldn't be a good idea, and still, nothing actively stopped him. "Is it hard thinking without me?"

His eyes narrowed again and this was becoming familiar, less unsettling. Still, a pause before he spoke, an answer in itself. "You really are a massive narcissist, aren't you?" Edgar blinked, and Scriabin continued. "You really think my entire existence, my entire self, completely revolves around you, don't you? Is that what's really upsetting you, making everything 'feel wrong', as you put it?" He could hear in his voice how badly Scriabin would have liked to have used finger quotes to emphasize his words, but that level of precision was beyond his new body. "That you don't think I _have_ a self? A life outside of you? That all you see is a part of yourself dancing around at arm's length?"

"No, that's not it at all." Edgar sighed and rubbed his forehead, although feeling this defensive at least was familiar. Being attacked by him he knew, and he didn't spare a thought to what that said about their relationship. "I wasn't thinking that at all." _Why would you even say something like that, you know I'm not-_

"Of course, of course, deny everything. What else do you do? Whenever I hit the nail on the head, you tell me there's no hammer."

"I wasn't thinking that, or anything like that." Edgar blinked for a second, then looked up to meet his eyes. "And you can't tell." A moment as it struck him. "You can't read my thoughts anymore, you can't tell. All you can do now is guess at what I'll say. Is that why this is so hard for you? You can't cheat anymore?"

Scriabin's eyes widened for a second before glaring again, a glimpse of the words striking home. He was still somewhat breathless when he spoke, the rough edges not yet worn off the experience, but this feeling, the indignance, his reaction to his words, that made sense, that he was expecting. "_Cheating_? Really? It's not cheating to breathe the air, is it?"

"What, my emotions were your air? Is that why it was so hard for you to breathe at first?" That didn't make much sense, but he might as well try and follow the metaphor. Scriabin let out an irritated sigh, made some vague attempts to hold a hand to his forehead not unlike Edgar had a few moments earlier. Mirroring each other again, although Scriabin's awkward motions gave it that surreal, unnatural quality.

"I told you before, my world and my existence are outside your ability to understand. You cannot comprehend what life is like for me, what it's like being inside you. You don't understand your own feelings the same way that I do, you can't see them the same way or interact with them or..."

Scriabin trailed off, awareness coming slowly, and Edgar felt a strange tightness in his chest, like he was watching someone else fall over.

"You're not inside me anymore," Edgar said, softly. "What's life like for you _now_?"

Scriabin tightened his grip on his arms, his mouth twisting for a brief second as he looked down at the table, away towards the fridge. Still, it took him so long to speak, to work the words out through his foreign vocal cords. "I'm trying to figure that out."

"That's what I meant... that's what I was asking. I'm not trying to pity you or mock you or anything, I just... I know this has to be hard for you. If it's this hard for me, then I don't know what it's like for you. It's got to be worse, and..." Edgar looked down at the pad of paper and the name that stared up at him in careful neat letters. "Things are different now, everything's different and everything's going to change, and... things don't have to be the way they were before. We don't have to keep going through the same patterns anymore. All of it... doesn't matter."

"What do you mean?"

"You said you wouldn't tell me anything about yourself... well, why?" Edgar looked back up at him, adjusting his glasses. "You kept so many secrets about yourself and what you were, and what was happening, and what you could do, and now..." He held his hands out to gesture to the kitchen around them. "Why does any of it matter? You got what you wanted. You aren't in me anymore, you aren't a parasite, you have your own body, we're not a lock anymore. It's all over now, Scriabin. That part of our life is _over_. Why do any of those secrets matter anymore?"

Scriabin stared at him, thought clear on his face, considering his words but he wasn't attacking him yet and that kept Edgar going.

"Those secrets aren't protecting anything anymore, it's all gone. All of it, it's all gone and it's... it's never coming back." Down back to the paper again, and he traced some more circles with his pen. "It'll never be the same as it once was. We're never going to be the same again, like we were, so... why should we pretend? Why keep lying to each other? Why can't we just be honest?"

A long pause, and Todd again looked between the two of them, waiting to see who'd break the silence first. Did he even understand what they were talking about?

Scriabin's words came slowly and with effort, his mouth quirked up in a sloppy attempt at a smile. "I'm not very good at being honest."

Edgar had expected the worst, and he let out a long sigh of relief. Maybe this wouldn't be completely hopeless after all, maybe they actually could get somewhere. "Well, at least we can try. Like I said, it doesn't matter anymore what I know about all the supernatural... stuff. We're both firmly banned from ever interacting with it again." A moment. "Or at least, I am." Another moment, and he looked up. "Do you think you are?"

"What, worried I might pick up my own little 'voice' like you did?" Scriabin grimaced slightly at the thought, and he got the impression that he was going for an expression a lot more subtle and hadn't quite managed it. "I'm a little more resilient than you, my boy."

"That's-" Edgar cut himself off and pressed a hand to his forehead. What was the point? Pick your battles. Still, the familiar diminutive had stirred something in him, some emotion he didn't quite know how to name. Instead it worked its way into his words, tight and quick but still no easier to read. "I don't know, I just assumed you'd be exempt, but I could be wrong." Of course, D and K hadn't said anything about that, since they'd assumed Scriabin would be dead by now, and yet, he... "You..." 

When he sat across from him at the table, when he looked like any other person he might run into on the street, it was so easy to think that Scriabin had been born, had parents, that he was human just like Edgar and anyone else but below the surface...

He'd said Scriabin wasn't a parasite anymore, but how accurate was that? How much of Scriabin's self relied on being that supernatural thing, and how much depended on who was in front of him now? Did a body make him human, change him, or was the essence of him, whatever that entailed, simply using the body as a tool, just as he'd once used Edgar? How much had changed, really, what did that make him? He looked human across from him, but how human was he, really?

"Do you remember what it was like? Being a part of all that?"

A pause. 

"You mean, being... what I was?" Scriabin said, carefully. Edgar nodded. "Of course."

What made someone human anyway? Edgar stared at him a little longer, his pen ticking down a few lines. He knew what Scriabin was in a vague sense, but what was that actually like? What did it actually entail to be... whatever he was? Who was he? Who was the person sitting across from him? 

"...What's your first memory?"

Scriabin tilted his head, blinking, as if he'd expected a different question. It took him a few seconds to think of what to say. "That's where you want to start? That's a little complicated, isn't it?" 

_Is it? _Edgar waited, and eventually Scriabin raised his hand to his mouth in thought again. 

"Well, if you insist..." Brief glimpses of the attitude he used to know so well, shining through the foreign wrongness of his new home, and still they were braced by the obvious effort everything he did involved. An actor in a human suit, and the thought made Edgar's stomach twist a little. "Of course, my first memories are yours... when you were a toddler I believe. Mostly vague impressions that become clearer the older you get, as you'd expect."

So he had kept some of Edgar's memories... although, Edgar could still remember them himself. Could they have shared them?

"But I'm not sure if that's what you're asking me..." Scriabin's voice was fading, eye contact drifting away. "My first memory..." And he hesitated.

"What is it?" Todd prompted, and Scriabin glanced his direction, but didn't say anything. "Shmee's really interested." And a shiver went through Scriabin like he'd walked through a gust of wind. "What was it?"

Why did he react that way?

Guarded, still wary, and he spoke slowly. "The nightstand by your bed."

Edgar tilted his head, a silent question, and then it snapped into place immediately. Of course. "Your toy..." He'd always felt uneasy when it'd been moved, and why did that bring something else back to him, something dreamlike... "Didn't I find you there, once?" Slowly coming into focus. "When you were hurt, I found you there."

Scriabin said nothing for a while, staring down at the table in deep focus, an internal struggle clear on his face although Edgar could not reach out to see the details. No doubt he'd meant his earlier comment about having trouble with honesty as a joke, but this really did seem extremely difficult for him. "It's my place. When I think back... I can remember you, I remember talking to you, I remember... thinking, and saying things, but a memory, like yours... like the ones you have, ones that... involve the world outside." Each word sounded painful to get out. "The first one I can think of is... that place. I remember... that place."

And it reminded Edgar of something. "Scriabin, when we were talking to them... you said you got pushed into your toy once. What happened?"

He jerked, startled, probably having forgotten that he'd let that slip, and his expression darkened considerably. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Why not? There-"

"Because it wasn't a pleasant experience, you idiot," Scriabin snapped. "I'd think that'd be obvious."

"Why not?"

"Why not- why not?!" Scriabin looked affronted now, and his words came quickly, emotion lending them instinctual ease. "Are you seriously asking me that?"

"Did you ever go in your toy before?" Todd asked, and Scriabin always looked over at him as if he was surprised he was still there. "I've seen Shmee in my dreams sometimes, and he looks like himself." He shook the bear. "But he doesn't move in real life."

"No, absolutely not," Scriabin said, short and irritated, and he looked away. "The toy was just a toy, something _you_ were overly fixated on, not me." With a pointed glance at Edgar.

"That is a complete lie." Edgar put his pen down, almost offended at how blatant it was. "_You_ talked through your toy to me. _You _based your appearance on your toy. That was definitely _you_."

He could catch Scriabin rolling his eyes, and the stab of irritation at that was familiar enough to let the details blur, to see him as he once was, as he'd once seen him, instead of the stranger in front of him now. Scriabin still wouldn't look at him. "You don't understand anything, do you? I've told you before, this is all vastly outside human comprehension. You get entangled in supernatural business, you assign relevance and importance to a toy, and somehow you're surprised when it behaves in ways you don't expect."

"Like you getting shoved into it? Was that my fault? That'd be pretty impressive, considering I didn't even know it happened."

He could see his words hit, the surprise and anger, and he couldn't help a satisfied smirk. _Got you._ Scriabin struggled to find a response.

"You weren't the one who did it."

"Was it the monster?" Todd said before the silence could gain the weight it would have had otherwise, and Edgar tried to remember what D had said. Scriabin had accused him of a lot of things, was that one of the ones that he'd denied?

Scriabin was darkly quiet for a few seconds before speaking again, like he'd been forced to. "I'm not sure. It just happened. One second I was with you, and the next I... wasn't. I was stuck. And I tried to get back, and I couldn't." He obviously didn't want to talk about this, so it was strange that the words kept coming. "And you, you were asleep."

"I don't..." And it grew clearer. Still it lurked in the back of his mind, a nightmare that left scars only real events should have been capable of. "Scriabin, when I had that dream... where were you? Where did you go?"

"You left, Mr. Scriabin?" Todd blinked, and hugged his bear tighter to himself.

Scriabin stayed silent.

"Where were you?" And a touch of anger worked its way into his voice, betrayal. "Where were you? You said you were stuck in me, you said you _couldn't_ leave, were you lying the whole time?"

"I didn't leave," Scriabin said, eventually. "Not entirely."

That's right, the thing in the wall, but still. "Where did you go? What were you doing?" Anger was working in a bit more clearly now, although he was trying to keep it in check. Todd didn't look very happy about his rising voice. "You knew the dangers, you knew that thing was after me, you knew that and you left anyway, what were you doing? What could've been so important?"

Another long silence.

"Scriabin, answer me!" A sharp command, and he saw Todd jump again, Scriabin twitch. "What were you doing? Why did you leave?" _Why did you abandon me to those things? Why didn't you protect me like you said you would?_

Still, Scriabin stayed silent, and Edgar could feel himself starting to shake. _How could you, how could you do that to me? I trusted you. I never should have trusted you._ And still, not enough to say it out loud, to take that risk. Still, wary of the pain Scriabin could inflict on him even now.

"I didn't leave," Scriabin said, slowly and thoughtfully, his eyes boring into the tabletop. Edgar gave him a look, about to say he'd already said that, when he continued. "I was forced."

Edgar stared at him, blinked for a few seconds. "What do you mean?"

Another long pause, Scriabin still refusing to look up, and he could see his mouth moving although no sound came out, apparently thinking to himself. Had he always put this much thought into his words? "I didn't leave you, I was taken out. Forced out. Pushed out. Whatever term you like. They're all not entirely accurate... or inaccurate."

Edgar stared at him, and still he felt wary, still there was a faint tremble along his arms. "Are you saying that when I was attacked that one time, you were somewhere else? Pushed into your toy? That's why you weren't there?"

Edgar hated these pauses, he wasn't used to these from him. With Johnny, sure, he'd come to expect them, but Scriabin had always leapt in quickly, he'd always known what to say, he'd never given him chances to recover or to think, he was relentless. This was too slow, it didn't feel right. All of this, all of it, how long would it take to get used to this?

"Yes, that's right," Scriabin said, with the same slow, thoughtful tone as before. "It happened suddenly... they trapped me somewhere else, so I couldn't protect you. But even so, you saw that I could never truly leave you, didn't you?" Finally, Scriabin looked up at him, deeply somber. "They couldn't separate us completely... some part of me was always with you."

"Is it there now?" The question just came out of him without thought, and Scriabin blinked, surprised, before again looking down. He ran a hand over his head, his fingers jumping when it didn't encounter any of the resistance he must have expected. 

"You said it yourself just now, didn't you?" Scriabin said, his voice thin. "That part of our lives is over."

And just as Edgar had thought that he'd feel happy about that, he expected Scriabin to sound overjoyed at the thought. Instead they mirrored each other once again.

"So... they got rid of you, then attacked me?" It sounded plausible, even fit with what he'd just said, but still... something about it didn't seem right, something didn't quite mesh. What was it that bothered him about this? What was it that K had said to him...

"Yes... that's why I wasn't there that time," Scriabin said.

What was it she said... something about, if Scriabin had just stayed put like he was supposed to, that he wasn't supposed to be able to leave, something like that but the impression, the feeling he'd gotten was that Scriabin had made a _choice_...

"Are you lying to me?" Edgar said.

Scriabin blinked, then met his stare levelly. Like something had come over him, a channel flicked off as he became an impassive wall, completely unfazed. Unmoving, unchanging.

They stared for a while like that, waiting for the other to back down, before Todd spoke up. "Did you, Mr. Scriabin?"

Scriabin didn't say anything.

"Are you lying to me?" Edgar kept his stare. "I told you, you have no reason, there's no reason to lie about any of this, and you've said you don't lie for fun, there's no reason for you to lie to me about this, there's no reason we have to keep doing this to each other, there's no reason we have to keep _doing this_-" He stopped and calmed himself down, forced his hands to loosen and his words to untwist. "Just tell me the truth, Scriabin. It's over now, it can't hurt me anymore. There's nothing left to hide. What happened?"

Scriabin didn't break eye contact, his voice smooth. "Does it matter?"

He wasn't surprised, shouldn't that have been reassuring? Was that what twisted into the stab of anger he felt at those words, the endless redirection, he'd expected that and appreciated and resented it at the same time.

Of course Scriabin would lie to him. Even when there was no benefit. What else did he do? How far down did that run, how deep did that root go? 

If that had changed, would he have still been the same?

"I don't know why I even bother asking." Edgar sighed and took his glasses off, rubbing his eyes. "I should know better by now that I'm not going to get any answers from you about any of this."

A pause, and there was something in Scriabin's voice that caught his attention. When he moved his hands away, he could barely make out that he was smiling, a little easier this time. "Didn't I already tell you that? It's a fool's errand, my boy, although you've always been fond of those."

Edgar sighed again; he wished this familiarity just stung instead of reassured him. "I can't believe this, everything's different, everything changes, it's all over and you have your own body, you're free, we're both free, and we just go right back to our old patterns, we just keep doing the same things." And his thoughts drifted further back, to the last time they'd play-acted together. "Pretending to be something we're not when everything around us tells us differently... what the hell is wrong with us, Scriabin? This isn't even the first time we've done this, is it?"

Another long pause, and Edgar went back to rubbing his eyes.

"What are you talking about?" Todd eventually said, and that's right, he wasn't there for any of it.

"It's complicated, Todd." Edgar sighed again. "It's always complicated."

"What is it that's bothering you..." Scriabin said, thoughtful when it should have been accusatory, and he could hear him thinking it through as he kept his voice going. "Pretending to be things we're not... is that how this seems to you? Who do you think I am? Surely after all the time we've spent together, you know me, don't you? You know who I am? You've said it so many times, you haven't forgotten, have you? You've always called me a liar. Why shouldn't I be one now? Isn't that who I am to you?"

"Is that who you are to_ you_?" That wasn't very clearly phrased, and Edgar pressed his hands tighter against his eyes. "Is lying what makes you you? What else do you have?"

Scriabin didn't say anything, and Edgar didn't move his hands, and another long silence ensued.

"I don't really know what's going on, or what you're talking about..." Todd said eventually. "But you're getting stuck. That's what Shmee says." A moment. "Isn't there something else you can talk about, Mr. Edgar? Something easier?"

"Like what?" Edgar felt a wave of exhaustion and apathy at dealing with this, at dealing with the countless questions and the void, the endless void within him that just kept mocking him the more he called out. His thoughts echoed back at him, laughed at him for listening for a response, and he kept reaching out to him, kept trying to find understanding like they once had, and there was nothing. It was gone, he was gone. 

"You still don't really know how to be alive, right, Mr. Scriabin?" Todd said. "Maybe you two should work on that for now and think about the big stuff later. Like you said, practical problems." In a careful imitation of Edgar's voice. "Shmee says you should do things one at a time."

"I don't have to know _how _to be alive, I just_ am_ alive," Scriabin said, although without much strength. "I'm just getting the hang of this body, is all."

"Is it like when you controlled me?" Edgar said, still not moving his hands. "It's just you in there, isn't it?"

This pause had an awkward tinge to it, and there was a darkness to Scriabin's tone that sounded familiar, another harsh sting that soothed somehow. "Yes, it's just me in here. They apparently aren't _that_ sloppy. And..." Faltering for a second, and his tone changed. "It's not the same. I should think that'd be obvious." Recovered, although still not completely natural.

"How?"

"...I should think that'd be obvious," Scriabin said, although not in the same way he just had. A bit softer, somewhat disbelieving perhaps, vague irritation. He couldn't read him, feel him, now he just had to guess. He'd accused Scriabin of cheating, but what had Edgar been doing? "I grew in you, Edgar. I know you better than you know yourself, and that includes how your body works. I had it all memorized even before I had a chance to use any of it myself. Of course this isn't the same."

Which reminded him of something...

"Scriabin, when you took me over that first time..." Edgar finally took his hands away and looked up. Scriabin was staring at him, head tilted, and his hair, the lack of his hair was throwing him more than anything. "You said you lied so you could do it again, was that true?"

Scriabin stared at him again, that level stare from before that slowly broke into something considerate, thoughtful again, an internal struggle, before words finally came. "It's all over now, so it doesn't matter, you said."

Edgar sighed and again pressed a hand over his eyes. "Yes, that's right. So..."

"Then the answer is yes."

Edgar moved his hand, stared at him and Scriabin kept his gaze.

"Although, it's not as clear cut as you probably think." Another pause as he tried to gather his thoughts, and he hesitated again. That look of great difficulty, effort to even make the words come at all. "The first time was an accident."

He'd suspected that, somewhere deep and vague where Scriabin hadn't found it, dragged it out of him and torn it apart, but to hear it from him was something else entirely. "Then... what happened?"

"Believe it or not... I was probably just as confused as you were afterwards." Scriabin broke eye contact and looked away from him, as if he was speaking to himself. His voice softened slightly in thought. "At the time, you'd shown me rather... unexpectedly that my reality was impermanent... reminded me that I could die, of my own mortality and lack of control and I was... desperate." He got the impression he wanted to say frightened instead, but changed his mind. "You said something about never having my own body, and something about that... it made me furious beyond belief. I wanted to prove to you, show you you were wrong, and then... I was in control." Scriabin glanced back at him for a second. "And I fell into your coffee table."

Edgar blinked at him, still trying to digest all this, and Scriabin held up a finger, looking down at the table now, as if he was counting out his thoughts. "That's where the bruise around your ribs came from. It took me a while to get the hang of actually controlling things... but not that long."

"Why did you go to the church?"

"That's not where I was going." Scriabin tried to do something with his body, failed, tried again and this time managed it - a shrug. "Why would I go there? It holds no significance to me." And Edgar's first thought, instinctual to that, was_ liar_, but he did not say this out loud. "I was going somewhere else. Then I felt something in the back of my mind... something strange that kept building. It seemed dangerous to keep driving, so I stopped to see what would happen. Then... you came back."

Edgar thought back to that terrifying moment, when he'd been snapped from one place to another without any warning, when he'd been desperate for an explanation, and... "You asked me if I remembered what happened..."

"That's right, I did." Scriabin nodded, carefully, and he held up a finger again. "Always gather as much information as you can before you make a decision, isn't that right? Surely you can't fault me for that, that's _your_ tendency after all. I couldn't hear you while I was in control, of course..." And he could see a smile tugging at his lips for a second, something smug and satisfied. "My control over the body was absolute... impenetrable." And Edgar rolled his eyes, which drove away Scriabin's smile quickly enough. "But as a result, I didn't know what it was like from your perspective. I knew you were there, but I couldn't reach you, and at the time, I didn't know what that meant. And I didn't know how much you'd remember when you came back. No reason to tip my hand early, you see. And when I looked, lo and behold... I was correct in being cautious. You didn't remember a thing."

Edgar looked down at the table, his voice dropped down to a mumble. "And you lied to me about what happened."

"I did," Scriabin said. "At the time... I wasn't entirely sure I could do it again, or at least, _how_ to do it again. Just that it was something that was within my abilities, something that I knew was possible. And I decided that was information that you didn't need to know." And the smile was back. "For your own safety, of course." Like it was a joke.

"Are you telling the truth now?"

A pause, and Scriabin tried his hand at a laugh. It was awkward, a quick huff of air, but it couldn't have been anything else. "I am, actually. You honestly can't tell the difference at all, can you? It's amazing to me, we've been together for so long and you still can't tell a lie from the truth." A moment, and something else entered his voice, something wondering and new. "I wonder, is that because I'm so good at it, or because you're so bad at it?"

Edgar thought over what he'd said, and something faint echoed, something too indistinct to identify, but somehow it guided his next words. "Did you think I'd come back the first time?"

Scriabin blinked at him, his previous light mood gone instantly, and he tilted his head. "When I took you over, you mean?"

"Did you think I'd come back?" Edgar stared down at the table.

There was a pause as Scriabin considered this, thoughtful and rubbing his chin, before he finally said something. "I think I did. It's sort of hard for me to remember now..."

"They said that you were meant to take me over completely..." Edgar mumbled, and he heard Todd jump a little.

"That's what you were supposed to do?" Todd asked, wide eyed and incredulous, and he hugged his bear tightly with a squeak. "Mr. Scriabin, that's awful! You were going to do that?"

"No," Scriabin said, in the same short and irritated way as before, and then he blinked at his own words before slumping down in his chair, grumbling.

"No? What do you mean, no? That's what you were going to do, isn't it?" Edgar said, although something in his chest was fluttering at the fact that Scriabin had denied it, some stupid part of him that just never knew when to stay down. "They said that was your true purpose."

"Shut up," Scriabin snapped, glowering, and he took a few seconds to try and find his words. "I told you, the forces at work are vastly beyond your understanding..." 

"What does that have to do with anything? Was that what you were trying to do or not?" What was this feeling, why wasn't it going away? Something told him it was dumb, in a poor imitation of what Scriabin would have said had he been able to hear, in a plaintive echo to fill the void. "Every time, were you just hoping I'd never wake up again?"

"No." More in response to Edgar's offended tone than anything, and then Scriabin cursed and pressed a hand to his head, his teeth gritted. "You don't understand... you don't understand what it was like for me. You'll never understand what it was like."

"Why don't you try explaining for once instead of hiding behind your lies and your excuses?" Edgar crossed his arms. "And you're always nagging me about deflecting and avoiding."

"Were you really going to kill Mr. Edgar?" Todd said, still clutching his bear tightly. Both of them started at the question.

"Of course not!" Scriabin slapped a hand down on the table, clearly angry and Todd jumped again. "That's exactly what I've been trying _not _to do, despite everything you did to try and stop me." And he glared at Edgar.

"I wasn't trying to get myself killed-"

"That's all you ever tried to do!" Scriabin threw his arms out clumsily, emotion driving his actions before his body had the skill to compensate. "That's all you've ever tried to do, Edgar! When you aren't directly trying to get yourself killed, you're just passively lying there accepting death without a fight! _I'm_ the only one who's ever bothered to try and keep you alive, you stupid asshole!"

"Don't call me that!" Edgar jabbed a finger at him, then glanced at Todd. "And watch your language. How can you possibly say you were trying to keep _me_ alive when your entire purpose was to _steal my life_?" Edgar pressed a hand to his chest. "Christ, I can't believe it, in the end, _you_ were the one who was going to kill me! After everything you said-"

"I was _not_!" Scriabin again slammed a fist against the table, and Todd hid further behind his stuffed bear. "The only thing I ever tried to do was keep you alive, and the fact you can't see that, you can't understand that, god damn you, god _damn_ you, and you were chastising me for playing pretend when everything's changed? I can't believe what a goddamn asshole you are."

"Language!" Had he been in a calmer state of mind, it may have occurred to him to ask Todd to leave, but at this point the argument was so heated he could think of little else. "You were going to take me over! You were going to take me over _completely_, _forever_! You can't deny that!"

"That's not what I wanted to do!"

A brief pause helped cool down the embers, and Edgar blinked. Scriabin looked as if he hadn't wanted to say that.

"Then what_ did_ you want to do?" Warily, and Scriabin pressed his hands over his eyes.

"I was trying to keep you alive. I was trying to keep us alive. I've always been trying to do that." Lower now, strained, and he kept his head down. "I can't believe you couldn't see that, you still can't see it."

"Both of us? Or just the body for you?"

There was a faint tremble along Scriabin's arms, muscles straining and tight from pressure, and he didn't say anything for a few seconds.

"You are such an asshole." Quiet and with a faint quaver.

"Did you want to stay with Mr. Edgar?" Todd said, matching his tone. "You always said you were going to leave..."

Scriabin didn't say anything.

"When you took me over that first time... did you know I'd come back?" Edgar said, low and serious. "Did you even want me to?"

Scriabin sat there, his arms shaking, but he didn't say anything. Todd watched him for a few seconds then looked to Edgar, sympathy in his eyes.

"Mr. Edgar, of course he wanted you to come back," Todd said, with the absolute conviction that only children have. "Mr. Scriabin cares about you, you both know that, right? Otherwise he wouldn't have fought so hard to protect you when the monster came at night." He looked down at his bear. "And Mr. Scriabin said he didn't want to take you over, so maybe whoever said that was wrong. Maybe they didn't really know you two good enough to know that's not what he wanted." A moment. "And you, Mr. Edgar, you wanted him to stay alive too, right?" Todd tilted his head. "You said you saved him before, right?"

Todd looked between the two of them while Edgar stared across the table at his counterpart, and Scriabin lowered his hands to meet his eyes. Todd held one hand out to Edgar and another to Scriabin. 

"You both saved each other, so you both want each other to be alive, that's what's really important, right?" Pleading a little for the argument to be over. "Even if they told you to do something else, you didn't, so you should think about that, and not everything else. You already said it was over, right, Mr. Edgar? So it's not important anymore." They didn't take his hands, so Todd leaned back in his chair, back to holding Shmee. "You got to stop getting stuck on what happened and focus on what's happening now, all the important things."

They stared at each other still, and Edgar could see his eyes behind his sunglasses, knocked askew.

"Did you really want to keep me alive?" Edgar said, softly.

Scriabin stared at him for another long moment before he could speak, something twisted in his words that he didn't know how to identify anymore. "I was trying to keep _us_ alive."

"Because you had no choice? Or because..."

The muscles in his face twitching, fighting something, his lip raising for a brief second as if in a snarl before pulling down, and he buried his head in his hands.

"It doesn't matter _why_ anymore," Scriabin mumbled eventually. "None of it matters. That part of our lives is over." A deep breath. "It doesn't matter."

And he'd probably never know, knowing him. Edgar looked down at the pad of paper, his eyelids feeling heavy. He kept reaching for him, kept calling, kept speaking internally and he did not respond, he would never respond. He was forever gone, forever at a distance, a barrier between them that could never be brought down. And it occurred to him that he'd been going about this the wrong way. If they could not hear each other internally, if they could not feel each other's emotions, read each other's thoughts, then... they'd have to...

"I thought that... if we ever did separate..." His words were halting, and he noticed Scriabin jolt a little at what he was saying, but he did not look up. "I always thought that if we did somehow get... away from each other, that things would be..." He tried to find the right word, but it refused to settle. "That things would be... better. For both of us. It seemed like that'd only make sense... it'd be the solution to all our problems. It'd fix everything, and now that it's happened..."

He traced a long line along the bottom of the page. "I don't know what I'm feeling right now, and I don't know if this really... fixed anything."

A long pause, and Scriabin didn't look up.

"I don't remember you thinking about us separating," Scriabin said eventually, muffled somewhat by his hands. "I remember you thinking about getting rid of me, somehow, but not us being separated."

Of course Scriabin would focus on that. Edgar doubled back on his line. "That's not what I was talking about."

"Argument based on faulty ground, where is that a place to begin...?" To himself more than anything else, without the strength that typified a true argument from him.

"What did you think it'd be like, Scriabin?" Edgar looked up from his pen. "Did you think it would fix things? Did you think this would make things better?"

Scriabin lowered his head further.

"I didn't think this would happen at all." Quiet and low.

Edgar sighed. "I don't know what to do with... all this." He gestured vaguely in the direction of his chest. "I thought..."

"What, do you want me to sort through your emotions for you? Tell you what to do? Give you your perfect solutions so you can ignore them, as you usually did? I'm here, but I'm still just a tool for your own emotional development and stability?" Scriabin's fingers were digging into his scalp, but still he kept his eyes on the table, refused to look up.

These attacks seemed so random now, so unpredictable, unconnected to Edgar's thought patterns in ways that only made him feel more and more ill at ease each time they happened. 

"Then what about your feelings, Scriabin? How do you feel? Tell me how you feel, then, if you're upset that I'm not taking you into consideration. Tell me how you feel." Edgar reached a hand out to him. "Talk to me, if that's what you want."

And just like he thought, Scriabin didn't say anything.

"You were never any good at telling me about yourself before..." Edgar shook his head. "Why should that change now?"

"It's hard, Mr. Edgar," Todd said, breaking his attention away from Scriabin, who still resolutely refused to look at either of them. "It's really hard for Mr. Scriabin right now, he's got a lot of stuff to learn and deal with that he's never had before. Not without you with him to help him out, you know? Like Shmee." He held up his bear for a second. "He's trying to figure it out, it'll just take time I bet."

Scriabin was mumbling something to himself, but it was too soft to hear. Edgar stared at Todd for a few seconds longer, then looked back to the pad of paper. He set down his pen with a sigh.

"You're right... more than anything, I think we need time." And he looked back to Scriabin. "After all, we've got the rest of our lives to try and figure this out."

Challenging him to say something, to live up to his threat, to walk out as he'd said, to turn him away, cut their ties, leave him, and he wouldn't have done it if he didn't know how Scriabin would react.

And as Edgar thought, he didn't refute him. Just kept mumbling to himself, although he didn't know for what purpose.

The enormity of what had happened, of the reality of the person sitting across from him and the gaping, ragged hole he'd left inside him, refused to settle, refused to be appeased. It demanded answers, plans, explanations, the neat boxes Scriabin had mentioned. Perhaps his attack hadn't been entirely unfounded - if Edgar could take this experience, catalogue it neatly, file it away and then never think about it again, he'd feel much better. If he could feel at all like any part of this was under his control, he'd feel much better.

So much of his life had been out of his control for so long, and still, he wasn't used to it. Perhaps learned helplessness, as Scrabin had taunted him with, only went so far.

There was so much to work through, so much to sort through, so many questions to ask, and already it felt like they'd been talking for hours and they hadn't even scratched the surface. He said they'd have their whole lives but he didn't know that and it didn't feel like it. It felt like he had to get this resolved now, all of it, because for some reason or another, he was going to run out of time. Some other new calamity was going to happen, some aspect of this was going to slip from his hands and he'd have no one to blame but himself and his own lack of thoroughness.

He was so tired and still he felt like he hadn't accomplished anything. He wasn't unfamiliar with that feeling though - he remembered it from the last days, impressions lingering longer than any solid details.

He stared down at the legal pad, his idle lines and doodles, and Scriabin's name.

_So, you are my brother now. _Vaguely, hoping that thinking the words might make it seem real, might jump-start the part of him that took things apart and understood them, made things make sense. But no, it still didn't sound real or true, it still felt like some kind of dream, and still, no mocking response came for his confusion, no condescending laughter.

"I don't know what to do," Edgar said, eventually. When he looked up at Scriabin, he still had his head down. He could see his narrow shoulders rising and falling with his breathing... he'd gotten the hang of speaking so far, how much else was there for him to learn? Even that seemed like an insurmountable task, a mass of problems to solve without any idea of where to start. "What are we going to do?" And he emphasized the _we_.

Scriabin shivered once, but did not reply. As if he sensed his distress, Todd again reached a hand out to him.

"Shmee says you should start with small things first. Are all the practical problems done?" Todd pointed at the pad of paper, and Edgar looked down at it but didn't read any of the words.

"I don't know... I can't think of anything else right now." It'd probably come to him later.

"So... what else do you have to do right now?" Todd looked over at the wall with the calendar. "You have to go to work soon, right?"

"Ah, that's right..." Edgar blinked, and he adjusted his glasses and squinted. "In a few days, it looks like."

"Okay, so now you know what you got to do." Todd nodded, sounding rather pleased with himself. "Mr. Scriabin, what stuff do you need help learning?"

"I don't need anyone's help." Still muffled, and he hadn't moved his hands. "I'll figure this out by myself."

Todd stared at him for a few seconds, then shrugged. "Okay, if you say so. So, that's done too then, isn't it, Mr. Edgar?" He looked back to him.

Edgar tilted his head, and he knew it couldn't be that simple, but there was nothing in him to goad him to fight. "I suppose."

"So where _is_ Mr. Scriabin going to sleep anyway?"

Right, that had been his first question and he hadn't even answered it. He found himself looking at the pad of paper again, his pen pressed to his lips in thought. Emotions were clearing a little at the prospect of a simple logistical question, and nothing in him told him that was wrong. "Right..." He drew an entirely pointless diagram, more to do something with his hands than anything else. "You're already on the couch... I'm not sure there's much room anywhere else." Another moment of thought. "I'll have to look into an air mattress or something like that, but in the meantime, if there are enough pillows and blankets, the floor shouldn't be unmanageable."

Saying something like that should have brought on an attack, mentally or even physically now, and when Scriabin did not say anything, Edgar looked up. Still he had his head in his hands.

"No comment? That's unusual for you." Edgar frowned, then focused a little harder. "Are you alright?"

"Leave me alone."

He stared at him for a few more seconds, then turned back to the pad of paper with a resigned sigh.

"Fine." A moment, and he reminded himself, reminded the voice that kept calling within, and the hand that kept desperately trying to reach out to Scriabin, to find how he felt and just know without having to guess. They couldn't work that way anymore, he had to find other ways, they had to do this like... normal people. No more instant knowledge, only knowledge that could be gained from actually speaking to each other. That was their only option now, because there was no going back. "...I wish I could still feel how you felt. I wish I knew what you were thinking."

And Scriabin - as he always had whenever Edgar had reached out to him, whenever Edgar had tried to connect with him, understand him - Scriabin did not respond. He'd fight against it until his dying day, even if it was what he wanted, for reasons Edgar would probably never understand.

How could he know him and not know him at all? How could he know Scriabin, know how he'd behave, predict his behavior, and then constantly be warning himself about the stranger in his house, constantly questioning and doubting if the person he stared at was even him, was even human? 

What a mess this all was.

"I've had enough of this for now." He set the pad of paper down and stood up. "Todd, do you want to help me try and set up the bed?"

"Sure!" Eager to help, or just glad to do something, he didn't know. Edgar walked back towards the living room, and when he passed by Scriabin, he stopped and looked over. Still he sat with his back hunched, his head buried in his hands, apparently focused on breathing although it was hard to say. There was a faint bit of fuzz on his scalp now that he looked, a few lingering strands of hair, but nothing else.

He thought about asking if he wanted to help, then thought that if they were truly free from each other, if things really were different, then Scriabin could make his own decisions just as Edgar could, and they'd both have to live with that. Scriabin had said to leave him alone... then Edgar would leave him alone. He could do that now, they could both do that.

He walked past him, and Scriabin didn't move or say anything.

Todd followed along behind him, held out his hands as Edgar began pulling blankets out of his hall closet. It was odd - the closet had always been a mess, but there were a lot of things in there that he didn't remember, and it took him a while to find things where they should have been. Scriabin, no doubt, but still, it unnerved him a little.

"Do you think Mr. Scriabin's okay?" Todd asked as Edgar piled another blanket in his arms. He wasn't quite whispering, but he obviously only intended it for them.

"I don't know," Edgar said in the same tone of voice, and the thought struck him that for once, now, finally, he could actually have a conversation with someone that Scriabin could not hear. He could have _secrets_ again, real ones, he could have_ privacy_. He could talk about Scriabin to someone else and not be afraid of him overhearing. That sensation of freedom was so overwhelming and so sudden that it barely registered, a white sheet draped over it while he struggled to keep his focus. "I don't know what he's going through right now." 

"Yeah... it's complicated. They're not like us," Todd said, as if he dealt with this kind of thing all the time. Edgar was never going to get used to that. "It's got to be hard."

"Well..." Edgar kneeled down and folded another blanket on top of the pile Todd was carrying, and he smiled faintly, although he wasn't sure why. "Your friend Shmee always seems to have good advice. What does he think?"

Todd beamed at him for acknowledging his bear, all too excited to tell him. "Shmee knows a lot about this stuff, though it's not everything. And sometimes it's hard to understand. But he says..." And he paused for a second, his face squinched like he was listening to something far away. "Huh, okay." With a slightly confused expression, and then he was back. "He says... there's a bunch, but he says you should remember..." Trying to find words, or hear them, or remember them, it was hard to say. "He says, Scriabin's always been inside you, right?"

"Yes."

"And he's never been outside you before, not for real like this. There was always a part of him in you, that's what he said, right?"

"He said that." And it was only the fact that Edgar had seen that part himself that meant anything. Scriabin said a lot of things.

"So..." Todd adjusted his arms a bit, and when he lost his balance Edgar steadied him. "So, he's always had you somewhere, right? He's never been alone before. And..." His eyes narrowed in concentration. "And Shmee says that might be... that'll probably be the hardest part."

"It's strange to think..." Edgar was smiling at the thought again, and he didn't know why because it wasn't pleasant or funny. "I was always so sure he hated me... I can't imagine he'd be anything but happy to get away from me."

"He's never been _alone_ before, Mr. Edgar." Todd looked at him now, direct eye contact and this time he was speaking to him, not as an intermediary between him and his imaginary friend. "You and me and other humans, we've all been alone sometimes but he's never been alone _ever_. Even Shmee was alone for a while before he found me, 'cause he grew up somewhere else." And Todd nodded to himself. "But if Mr. Scriabin grew up in you, then he's never _been_ anywhere else."

Edgar stared at the blankets in Todd's arms, and his words were slow to come. "That's true..."

"So... it's gonna be hard." Todd looked sympathetic, and Edgar wondered if he'd still feel that way if he knew all of what Scriabin had done to him over their time together. "And the new body's gonna be hard too, so..." And Todd looked down a little, this time a bit awkward, and that caught Edgar's attention. That wasn't typical for him at all. "If you guys start fighting again, try and remember that, okay?"

Edgar blinked at him, and he wasn't sure what it was he was feeling, just that it was sudden and incomprehensible, distorted by the echoes thrown in the blank void within him, the lack of clarity he'd come to expect from another source. Never good with emotions or feelings, what was this? Was he touched? Was that what this was?

"You guys fought all the time before, it was awful," Todd said, very softly, and he sounded wounded and now Edgar felt clearly and completely terrible. "Even when I couldn't hear all of it, it was awful. If everything's different now like you said, then maybe you don't have to fight anymore."

He hadn't thought about how it'd affect Todd, any child that was exposed to something like that, how selfish had he been? This feeling he could recognize very easily. Shame he'd learned early on.

"Maybe," Edgar said softly, and he looked up to meet his eyes. "I'm sorry, Todd. I shouldn't have put you through that."

"No, it's okay, Mr. Edgar," Todd said quickly, now looking upset at the idea of Edgar being upset, and there was another twinge of compassion and recognition in him that were almost startling, they were so strong. "It's not your fault, you guys were stuck and I know he started it sometimes. You're trying your best, it's okay! And I'm really glad you helped me after my parents got abducted by aliens and everything, you've been really nice to me. Don't feel bad, okay?"

He'd been so wrapped up in himself, in his own problems, his constant mental war with Scriabin, with the hallucinations and nightmares and delusions, that he'd forgotten what it was like to talk to another human being, to look them in the eyes. And unlike almost everyone else in his life, Todd had never been particularly hard to read. 

The vague, strange thing echoing, rebounding where Scriabin would have been, where he would have pinned it down and brought it to light, and then something clicked, a connection made again, the first tenuous line across the gap without his help. 

He saw far too much of himself as a child in Todd.

Edgar blinked several times, laughed a little to help bring himself back, and set a hand on Todd's shoulder lightly.

"I'm going to try and do a better job from now on, alright? For your sake. It's the least I can do if you're going to stay with me." Edgar tilted his head, his smile broadening just slightly, although it was the opposite of how he felt. "You deserve that much."

Todd stared at him for a few seconds, blinking, like he'd never heard that concept before, before he gave him a much more honest and genuine smile than Edgar could manage, one motivated through joy instead of sadness. "Thanks, Mr. Edgar. It's okay, really. It'd just be nice if things really could be different between you two."

"It would be, wouldn't it?" Edgar sighed a little, still smiling faintly, as he gathered up some of the pillows he'd found and stood, shutting the closet door with one foot. "I'd like it to be... I'm going to try. But I guess we won't know until..." _It happens_, and hadn't he said that to Johnny? That was something he didn't want to deal with right now, he had enough problems to think about without bringing him into it. Still, was this the same? Was he, if nothing else, at least being consistent? "Until some time passes." Close enough.

He looked back into the kitchen, and he saw Scriabin hadn't moved. What was he doing? What was he thinking? Had Edgar said something wrong? Was he upset, was he angry, was he sick, was he sad? He had no way of knowing, no way to tell now, he couldn't just reach out and touch him as he once had, no matter how hard he tried. He'd taken their connection for granted, and he couldn't believe he was actually saying that.

"I hope he's alright..." Edgar mumbled, very quietly, and Todd looked over to him from where he was pushing some of the couch pillows onto the floor.

"It'll be okay, Mr. Edgar," Todd whispered back. "It's just gonna be hard for a while but it'll be okay. At least there's no monster now, right?" And he smiled at him, that faint pleading look that he didn't want to look nostalgic.

"That's right..." Edgar stared down at the carpet instead, arranging pillows too carefully, putting a great deal of thought and care into where he put the blankets. "We've been through worse..."

"You both went through worse." Still whispering. "Right? So this'll be nothing, huh?"

"...I hope so." Edgar glanced over at Scriabin, wariness still burned deep, and he hadn't moved. "This isn't like anything else that's happened before."

"Yeah, I didn't know they could get out like that." Todd looked around the room nervously. "But it'll be okay. Shmee thinks it'll be okay, and he's usually right about this kind of stuff." A pause. "The axe stuff, not so much."

Edgar raised an eyebrow, but decided not to ask. Kid stuff, probably. He'd never been very good at that, and the thought sent a pang through him that made his hands shake for a second. What was it Scriabin had told him, that he didn't know how to play pretend games as a child...

He stared at Scriabin's back, the stranger, the parasite, the inhuman spiritual _thing_, the deeply confused and vulnerable man, his newborn brother. How did he get so good at playing them as an adult?

"Thanks for helping, Todd," Edgar said once the job was finished, the vague facsimile of a bed now by the couch. Not one Edgar'd want to sleep in himself, but it'd serve until he found something better. Todd smiled at him again, broad and honest, and Edgar smiled back at him, although it felt weak in comparison. "With everything. You're a very bright kid, you know that?"

"Thanks, Mr. Edgar." Todd grinned even more at the compliment, took it completely at face value. It was strange to interact with someone that was so relatively uncomplicated. "I know it's got to be real hard. I don't know what I'd do if Shmee got his own human body. Probably go crazy." With a faint squeak at the thought.

"Well, let's hope that never happens," Edgar said, softly, and he smoothed down the blankets for the fifth time, before he reminded himself that he had to say things now, he had to say things out loud because there were no more conversations to be had internally. "...Not sure what to do now."

Todd looked back at the table. Still Scriabin sat in the same position as before. He looked back to Edgar.

"If Mr. Scriabin doesn't want to talk or anything..." He tilted his head, and his smile was back. "Can you help me with my homework?"

\---

The silence was painful.

It wasn't Scriabin's general silence that hurt the most, although he'd said shockingly little since their conversation had dwindled off, and the longer he said nothing, the more afraid Edgar became that something terrible was going to happen, he had something truly awful in store for him. Silence from Scriabin was a warning, not a blessing, and even though the circumstances were so different, he could not shake that reaction. 

But even that wasn't what ached, what never seemed to stop bleeding. Still, he called out for him, no matter how many times he reminded himself it was futile. Still, he reached out for him, even when he knew it was impossible. He found now that there was a yawning abyss where Scriabin had been that he'd touched him more often than he'd ever been aware of... he'd never realized how often he'd reached out to brush Scriabin lightly, glanced across his feelings as if to confirm he was still there, to get an idea of how he felt. Like breathing, like blinking, it had become a ritual to him to check on him subconsciously, to keep track of his moods, to think as if he was speaking to him, and he'd never realized just how much he did that until there was no one to do it for.

Alone with his thoughts, how could it hurt so much? How had he lived like this before? How had he lived without him, although when that thought crossed his mind he'd winced, eyes shut, prepared for a blow that didn't come until Todd broke his thoughts and brought him back.

He kept asking who Scriabin was, but who was _he_? Had taking Scriabin out of him so abruptly, had it really broken something? It felt like something was missing, so many things that he couldn't begin to list them all, how could he find one fracture in the midst of endless rubble?

But he tried, he tried to get through it the way he knew best - losing himself in practical, simple problems until he could think of nothing else. And helping Todd was a good way to do that, yet another reason he was thankful to have him here.

His first instinct was to just tell Todd the answers to his homework, but he realized soon enough that that wouldn't burn up enough time, keep him distracted long enough for the circles to stop, so Edgar tried to find ways to teach him instead. It was new to him, to be this lucid speaking to Todd, and he could tell from his expression that Todd wasn't entirely used to it either. Far more accustomed to seeing him in his frazzled, broken state before, constantly at war with himself, slipping further down into insanity with each day.

Edgar tried to remind himself when he felt guilty that it was better than Todd having nowhere to go at all, or, God forbid, being taken in by Johnny. Even if Johnny had no intentions of harming the kid, he was absolutely sure that the last thing Todd needed to see was more death, and death followed Johnny everywhere. Maybe it wasn't the best home life, maybe he hadn't been the greatest caregiver or role model, but Edgar had tried. And he could try harder now and make up for what he'd done, and that was all he could do, wasn't it?

The silence within him mocked him. How thirsty had he become for constant judgment, or had he just grown so used to it that he couldn't conceive of life without it?

By the time they were done with his homework, it was late and Edgar was hungry, and he was sure he wasn't the only one. Still, Scriabin hadn't said anything.

"Did you have anything in mind for dinner?" Edgar said as he headed to the kitchen, and Todd followed along close behind him. He looked at Scriabin as they passed, concerned, and Edgar continued to the cabinets.

"Mr. Scriabin?" He heard Todd say softly, and when he turned to look, he was tugging at Scriabin's shirt. "Do you want to eat something?"

Scriabin jerked when touched, lifted his head for a second as all muscles went rigid. When he turned and saw it was Todd, he let out a breath and relaxed a little.

"You should eat something," Edgar said, turning back to the cabinets. He stared at the food but it didn't register. "Your body's new, after all. You must be hungry."

"I know this body better than you," Scriabin said, although he sounded hoarse. Perhaps from not speaking for so long, although it was hard to say. He coughed a little. "I'll tell you when I'm hungry or not."

"Or don't tell me and just make your own food." With minor irritation that came so naturally he didn't question it. "You can take care of yourself."

"I wasn't asking you for favors," Scriabin growled.

"Good." And he reminded himself, he said he was going to try and get better at this. Try and let the anger go. "But if I'm going to make something, do you have a preference anyway?"

Was it always going to be like this now?

He could hear Todd whispering something to Scriabin, something he couldn't quite make out, and he tried to focus on the cans and boxes in the cabinet to try and decide what he himself wanted, if nothing else. Surely Scriabin would have had a field day with that thought, if he could've heard it, and how often would he keep hitting that bruise until it stopped hurting? It was never going to heal.

"Whatever you want. I don't care," Scriabin eventually said, vaguely breathless, like he didn't want to. Edgar glanced back, and Todd gave him a shrug with a faint smile. What was it he said to him? "It doesn't matter." And Scriabin was back to his previous position, his head in his hands.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Edgar pulled out a can of Skettios. "You've been so quiet."

"Shut up."

"It's not like you, that's all." Edgar didn't look behind him, tried to focus entirely on what he was doing. How hungry was he? He was going to need more than one can, although he wondered, how much would Scriabin eat, if he could figure it out? Would he be deathly hungry, or would eating make him sick? Buried in an avalanche of questions with no answers. He had to say things out loud now, he had to talk to him. Scriabin couldn't pluck it out of his head anymore. "I'm just concerned."

"Bull..." And he trailed off. Maybe Todd being so close to him had reminded him. "Since when have you cared about anyone but yourself?"

"Mr. Scriabin, stop it," Todd said. "He's trying to be nice to you."

Edgar stopped, he couldn't help himself, blinking several times, and he was sure Scriabin must have reacted the same way. This pattern with them was so long-set; the idea of someone breaking through it, getting involved, doing something... someone else rebuking Scriabin, telling him to stop, was such a surreal experience that it was difficult to clear his thoughts or his emotions enough to come back to reality. Scolded by a child no less, why couldn't Edgar do that himself? Because Scriabin wouldn't listen of course, he'd take it as ammunition and just strike harder, whenever they were locked into each other things just escalated out of control until...

"I don't need him to be nice to me," Scriabin eventually grumbled. "I don't need anyone to be nice to me. I don't need any of you anymore."

Lies, of course, although what else did he expect of him?

"It's okay to need people sometimes, Mr. Scriabin. Especially after what happened." He could hear Todd getting back on the chair he'd sat on earlier. "We all got to stick together."

"I don't need anyone." Scriabin's voice was more muffled now, like he wasn't talking to them.

"Why aren't you listening?" Todd said, and Edgar felt a twinge of conscience because Todd was what, ten years old? This was something Edgar should be doing, this shouldn't be his responsibility. Scriabin was _his_ problem, _his_ burden. This was _his_ job. He had to try harder.

"Why do you keep saying that?" Edgar broke in. "That you don't need anyone, why is that so important to you?"

"You don't understand anything." With more strength now, frustration bleeding though. "I keep saying it, and you never grasp it. You don't understand anything, anything about me or what I was or what I am now."

"Like what? What is it that I don't understand? Can you explain it, or is that just an easy way to avoid the issue while still making it my fault?"

"This_ is_ your fault." Like a default response.

"Of course it's my fault, I was stupid enough to ask them to save you and they did, for reasons I still don't even understand." Edgar slammed down the spatula he was holding and rubbed his temples. "I..." _knew I shouldn't have done that _crossed his mind, but he thankfully bit his tongue. No, that would absolutely not help, and it wasn't even true, he was just frustrated.

"Mr. Edgar _saved_ you," Todd said, trying to emphasize his words. "He does care about you, okay? That's proof that he does. Can't you try and listen to him?"

"Then why_ did_ you save me, Edgar?" Angry, in a strangely wounded way, like Todd hadn't spoken, and Edgar felt himself flinch, preparing for the blow. He knew this was coming, what was it he had in store? "If all I've ever done is cause you grief, if I really am a heartless monster that only ever caused you trouble, that only ever hurt you, then why did you save me? Why did you come down off your pretty little cloud and save me with your divine grace?" Familiar sarcasm tinging his words, although he wasn't entirely sure it was all directed at him. A moment, and Scriabin laughed humorlessly, a single brief effort. "Are you really that much of a masochist?"

Edgar felt himself trembling slightly, trying to sort through the dozens of responses that burst to life in his head, find the right words that wouldn't make things worse and at the same time find the words that would slam Scriabin back into the ground, that'd hurt him in return, that'd wound and win for once, and what was right? What was the right decision, he had no one to guide him anymore. No more running commentary, what had happened to his judgment? He had to think, he couldn't let him get to him. He couldn't let this keep happening, he told himself he wouldn't keep doing this. 

Things had to change. They had to change, and he had to take steps to enact that change, and he had to do things differently. Scriabin wanted to run in circles but he was not going to follow him, he was not going to do this anymore. For Todd's sake if nothing else.

What was it that flitted across all the things he could say, something that tempted but vanished, instantly disregarded as a bad idea? The truth, of course, to simply say the truth, what he'd really thought at the time. He snatched onto the thought, struggled to pull it back into coherency. Never reveal emotional weakness to Scriabin, you can't trust him, he'll only hurt you, countless warnings that he'd told himself endless times to take to heart, and still, here he was. He was sure that just saying it would be a mistake, but it would be doing something differently. Scriabin was the liar - for once Edgar could just be honest. 

"Fine, you want to know why?" His voice cracked, and he narrowed his eyes and focused more directly on the food he was making, refused to turn around and see how Scriabin was reacting, how anyone was reacting. Like he was saying it to an empty room, and that was how it felt to say or think anything now. "I wanted to save my brother."

He couldn't see whether or not his words had struck a nerve or not, but he didn't wait to find out. _He's not theirs, he's mine. If I'd gone after you, you wouldn't have died. It doesn't feel right for someone to die so I could live._ "They told me the truth about you and I should've let them just kill you, after all the lies you told me and how you hurt me so many times, I should have done it, I should have just let you go and let you die and just- just let it happen, I should have just let it go, like you- I should have but I kept thinking about that stupid dream we had, and I kept thinking about the stupid things you said to me, and I kept thinking about..." He was getting angrier, louder with each word, and his eyes were stinging and he tried to stop his hands from shaking. Why was his body acting like this? Why did this always happen when he wanted to speak his mind? "I kept thinking about the stupid things I said, and who we were and, and that was enough, that was enough to make me do it. I wanted to save my brother so I tried, and it worked, and here you are."

Silence as he let out a trembling breath, felt his heart pounding and tried to calm himself down a little. He blinked slowly, heavily, as he stared down at the pan. "The whole thing was just a... it was just a bunch of lies, just us lying to each other, you lying to me for... whatever reason you have, I'm sure you have a million of them." He waved a hand carelessly. "But I couldn't... I couldn't let it go."

And he could already imagine his voice in his head, what he'd say to that, and why not? Why not just say it? It would never leave his head otherwise, and why not? He tilted his head, raising a hand and putting on his best imitation of Scriabin's voice, something he couldn't remember ever doing before. "Of course you couldn't let it go, my boy, you can't let go of all your childish fantasies. Even after they're proven to be false, you can't let anything go. Me, God, what is it? What is it that you're clinging to?" His voice cracked again, and Edgar narrowed his eyes further, blinking rapidly to try and clear the blurriness away. His imitation had grown fierce and ragged, overpowered by other thoughts. It was so easy to dig into the heart of things when he talked like this, no matter how painful and terrible. "Are you that desperate for the illusion of love? How many times do you have to hit your hand against the glass before you realize the mirror won't let you through? It was all a lie, I was lying to you..." And he sniffed and gritted his teeth. "I can say it to your face, and you still refuse to believe me... you're that desperate to believe that someone loves you. What's wrong with you?"

More than anything he wanted to leave the room, just walk out into the night and not come back, but he couldn't leave the food half-prepared. He'd trapped himself, how fitting. He pinched the bridge of his nose hard until pain spread back through his eyes to his skull, wishing that that might do something to fill the silence.

Scriabin did not say anything.

"Is that what you'd say?" Edgar finally got tired of it, trying to regulate his voice. "All I can do is guess now."

Still, he refused to speak, and Edgar let out a long sigh, stared at the spatula in his hand, the pan on the burner, tried to think only of that. He heard Todd faintly whispering, maybe trying to talk to Scriabin again, he wasn't sure. 

So, the ability to wound with words, that had been a part of him all along. Maybe that was where Scriabin had gotten it from... or perhaps he'd just learned it after being exposed to him for so long. The lines between were so blurry. His head hurt, was that true? How could he think something like that, was it true? Was he really that desperate, that stupid, to have saved his tormentor because of a delusion? Something that never even actually happened? After everything he'd done, how many times would he have to burn his hands before he learned his lesson? How many times could he do this to himself? He couldn't even blame Scriabin for any of it, it was all his doing.

"Mr. Edgar..." Todd said, timidly, and Edgar felt another pang of guilt. He'd said he was going to try harder and what was he doing right now? "Mr. Scriabin wouldn't say something like that..."

If only he knew. He probably would have said something even worse.

"Was it really something so noble?" Scriabin said, still without his normal strength, groping with each word for a thread that had always been so easy for him to find. "Was it really about saving me, or just the act of saving anyone, of earning your little golden wings, feeding your moral superiority complex? Did I even matter, or were you just opposed to the basic concept of death? Or perhaps it was something more childish, a refusal to let go of something that you thought was yours, without thinking of the consequences..." A moment, and Edgar could picture him twisting his hand in the air, as if that could keep his words coming when they faltered. "After everything I've seen you do, I'm understandably skeptical about the 'goodness' of your heart, or what it can motivate you to do."

Edgar had the ability, but Scriabin had retained his own, even as awkward as he was about it. And the wound he dug into him, the cut landed in a way that he was sure Scriabin hadn't anticipated. He wanted to argue, to refute, to prove him wrong, to doubt and refuse, and he reminded himself it was a circle, it was all a big circle, Scriabin was goading him into following again and he wasn't going to, he wasn't going to keep doing this. There had to be another way, another path, another route to take, a way out of this that he'd never seen before, had never thought enough to look for.

"Why can't you just accept it?" Edgar blinked, and his eyes kept stinging. He leaned further over the pan, letting the steam fog up his glasses. "Why are you trying to explain it away? Why is it so important to you for it not to be true, for there to be some ulterior motive? Why are you so desperate to prove I don't care about you?"

A pause as he assumed Scriabin considered his words.

"I'm not trying to prove anything," he said carefully. "I'm refusing to believe a lie. You don't care about me. You never have."

"Mr. Scriabin, that's not-"

"Why do you think that?" Edgar looked up, took a deep breath.

"Because your actions speak louder than words," Scriabin said, trying to keep his calm tone but it kept breaking, emotion pouring through, syllables fast and torn. "You've never taken me into consideration, the minute I trust you you treat me like a parasite, a thing, some inhuman monster, you ignore my feelings, you disregard my advice, you call me names, you put me in danger- my death meant nothing to you, the only thing you ever cared about was yourself, even after you told me all your fine stories about how much you cared about me, you still went back, you still refused to see me as anything but a parasite, a scourge, a villain- how am I supposed to believe you now? After everything you've done to me, after all the times I've been burned by believing things could be different, that you could care about anyone other than yourself, how am I supposed to believe you? I'm not as stupid as you, I don't keep making the same mistakes over and over. I don't hold onto scraps and lie to myself about how things are."

Edgar could see the track, the invitation, the intended path so clearly. It'd be so easy to follow him, so easy to do what he wanted, and he had to keep looking, he had to keep finding other ways, he had to stay above it, as much as his hands may have trembled, his chest aching.

"Why did I save you, Scriabin?"

"I..." Scriabin started, and he cut himself off. "I already told you, to feed your superiority complex, to earn points with God, there are a dozen reasons..."

"I care about you."

"I don't believe you."

"I saved your life because I care about you."

"You- you don't- you try to save everyone's lives, it doesn't even matter how you feel about them- you tried to save Jimmy's life, did you care about him? Was he worth it, would the world really have been worse off without him, is that what you're saying?"

"I saved _your_ life."

"You-..." And his voice was trembling, and he could hear the chair shifting against the floor, the squeak of the wood. "You didn't think it through, you didn't want to, you did it out of obligation, for yourself, for your salvation, to feed your ego, it wasn't about me, it's never been about me, you've never cared enough about me to take me into consideration..."

"I saved your life, and brought you here. I gave you what you've always wanted, a body of your own."

"You-... you don't know that it was you, it could have been- maybe it was me, maybe I convinced them, maybe they looked inside me and saw I deserved to be saved, you don't know it was you or your god, you don't have any proof it was you, it could have... it could have been me, for all we know..."

"Scriabin..."

And the stream of words stopped. Edgar looked down, set the spatula to one side, and took in two deep breaths before he turned around. Scriabin sat in his chair, his back straight, his palms flat against the table and he could see him trembling in waves, the intensity of his emotions clearly racking through his features, everything so obvious. 

"I asked you what your name was," Edgar said quietly, "and you told me you were my brother."

Scriabin stared at him, still shaking with heaving breaths, his mouth open like he wanted to think of something to say to that but couldn't. 

"Scriabin, after everything you've done to me... I still care about you. I know that I shouldn't, I wish that I didn't, but I do. Everything logical in me says that I shouldn't but I still do, enough for me to ask them to save you, despite everything that told me not to. I care about you somewhere and I can't make it stop, even when I know it's stupid. I tell myself all the things you've done, all the lies you've told me, all the cruel things you said to me, everything you were meant to do to me, everything, I tell myself all these things over and over, because it makes sense for me not to care about you. I _shouldn't_ care about you, after everything you've done. You've hurt me so badly, so many times, that there's no reason I should care about you. There's no reason I should've wanted to save you. But I did." Edgar touched a hand to his chest. "Logic and reason tried their hardest to make it go away, to put it in a box like you said and make it stop, and it didn't work. I still cared about you. No matter how stupid it was, I still cared about you. Even when I knew I'd get hurt, still... I cared about you. My brother." 

He let his hand drift downwards, reach out to him, and still Scriabin said nothing, only staring at him with wide eyes, still shivering.

"I can tell myself I shouldn't all I want, I can yell at myself for being stupid all I like, but it doesn't change anything. Whatever it is... it's too deep to make go away with words. Maybe that's my own fault, for not knowing enough about this kind of thing... you used to say something like that to me, I believe. But that feeling is there, and it won't go away, and it's hard to accept something that doesn't make sense like that. And it doesn't make sense. But it made me want to save you. It was strong enough to save you." Edgar blinked as his eyes began stinging again. "It makes me want to keep you here, even though I know it will be hard."

They stared at each other, and still, Scriabin could not think of anything to say. How rarely had he ever rendered him speechless? 

A thought that had flitted by before came back, previously kept away with fear and guilt, the dangers of exposing something too honest, too true, to someone who had so routinely torn him to shreds for it. He reached for it.

"It makes me want to live my life with you."

It was like he'd struck him, something raw and painful crossing his face, an emotion too deep for him to be able to understand, and Scriabin didn't give him much of a chance to analyze it. He tore himself away, a rough clumsy movement as he stood, knocking his chair over, and stumbled out of the room. He nearly collided with the wall as he tried to steady himself against it, then staggered into the living room and out of sight. Edgar watched him go, and he didn't feel his expression change. Only the stinging in his eyes.

There was silence for a time, then Todd slowly got off his chair and went to set Scriabin's upright again, moving as quietly as possible. "Mr. Edgar, do you think we should go after him?" In a faint whisper.

"No... leave him." Edgar let out a fluttering sigh, and he turned back to the food. "He'll come back on his own."

"Did you mean that?" Todd said, with a bit more strength now, and Edgar turned off the burner and went to get some bowls.

"I did," Edgar said, although there was a strange distance from the words, a return to his typical apathy after baring so much so unexpectedly. He'd exposed his throat to his most common predator, and here he was, alive and well. He should be torn to shreds right now, but instead... "I thought, we were always lying to each other... maybe things can be different if I'm just more honest."

"That's a good idea," Todd said, and he took the bowl Edgar offered him. "It's always good to be honest."

"That's what I'm hoping." Edgar glanced back at the living room. Where would Scriabin have gone? He didn't hear too much crashing around farther in the apartment. "I didn't think that's how he'd react."

"Do you think Mr. Scriabin feels the same way about you?" Todd said, in-between mouthfuls of Skettios. "That he cares about you but he doesn't want to?"

"Maybe..." Edgar said, staring down at his own food, and he didn't feel that hungry now but made himself take some bites anyway. They did mirror each other in so many ways... how much of his behavior would that explain? "It's hard to believe. He's... well, he's treated me very badly sometimes." And it was hard to make the words come out. Somehow it was difficult to say to Todd. "If he did care about me, he didn't do a very good job of showing it."

He glanced at Todd as he said it, and saw complete understanding on his face, none of the pity or confusion he might have expected admitting it to someone else, and of course. The piece slotted into place with a painful jerk, of course Todd would understand something like that... all he had to think of were his parents.

"That's what he said about you too though, right?" Todd said.

"That's true..." Inwardly he winced, still used to far more than that whenever something was pointed out to him. "Maybe he does. I don't know."

"Well..." Todd looked down at his own bowl. "Maybe he has to figure it out for himself. We should leave him some though, in case he gets hungry."

"Some what? Oh, right..." Edgar hadn't even been thinking about food. He glanced around the kitchen... with Scriabin as clumsy as he was, he didn't want him trying to cook anything at the moment. There probably wasn't enough for him... he'd make him some more and put in the fridge maybe, leave him a note...

Such mundane loops helped him calm down, close the window he'd opened into his heart, helped create the illusion of normalcy again, but it was fragile as most illusions were. What was he going to do? What was going to happen now?

There was nothing to do but try and handle it as it came. Accept and adapt. He could do that. He'd done that before. He could do that.

How long would it take for the mental silence to stop being so jarring? To stop asking internal questions that would never be answered? What would the Scriabin in his head have said, if he'd made such a confession to him? Would they have even made it that far, or would Scriabin have expertly plied him onto some other meaningless argumental diversion, controlled and directed the conversation as he saw fit to reach the conclusion that he wanted? Would Edgar have been allowed even, to refuse to engage as he had? Or would Scriabin have found some way to stop the entire thing from happening? 

Why would he, if he had? So as not to hear Edgar say it, or not to think about whether or not it was another aspect of their mirror? I am you, he'd said that so many times... how far did that go, even now?

"You look like you're thinking again," Todd said, and Edgar blinked and came back to reality. "Maybe you should try to do something else. Like, relax your brainmeats, you know?"

"Maybe." Edgar wasn't sure if it was a good idea; he didn't like letting go of anything, especially when this seemed so important, but he felt so lost and drained that he wasn't sure he could accomplish much more in his current state.

"So you should watch some TV with me!" Todd smiled at him. "TV's the best for not thinking!"

He couldn't argue with that. 

\---

It was strange how hard it was to focus on a leisurely activity, particularly when the whole point of it was not to think. Still, at the back of his mind, the same questions kept repeating and looping around, tracing the edges of the gap within him, a constant reminder of its presence. Where had Scriabin gone? Why had he left? Why did he react that way? How as he feeling? What was he thinking? What was he feeling? What were they going to do? How was he going to integrate Scriabin into society? And as the questions grew bigger, the greater the anxiety that came with them, the louder they became. What was he going to do about the new car? What was he going to do about his work? How long would it take Scriabin to adjust? How much would he have to learn?

What was he going to tell Johnny?

That question came at him so sharply, so painfully, the fear and cringing certainty of death giving it a blinding flash that made him shake his head, force himself to think about nothing else but the cartoon animals on the television. He couldn't do this, he couldn't do this to himself, he had to relax. His head hurt, he had to relax, and still he reached out to Scriabin inside him, his phantom other self. It was tempting to pretend he could hear him, to imagine what he'd say, but he only got a few lines into a "conversation" with him before he cut himself off firmly. No, that was not healthy. No matter what else had happened, he knew that was not healthy. He couldn't start talking to a fake Scriabin, not after all this.

He had to talk to the real one.

Todd had tucked himself beneath the blanket thrown over the couch, his bear in his arms, and after another slow rise and burn of anxious unanswered questions, culminating in Edgar shaking his head like he could get rid of them that way, he looked over at Todd and found his eyes closed.

What time was it anyway? He felt like it'd been an eternity. Edgar turned the television off, stood up as quietly as he could, and turned to go. He hesitated a moment, looked back, and then came over closer to Todd, adjusting the blanket closer up around his arms, and he didn't stir. There. Now he could go.

Edgar wanted to call out for Scriabin, just find him instantly, say his name and hear his response inside him, but that wasn't an option anymore. Todd was asleep, and Scriabin was out. Accept it, accept it, and he walked down his narrow hallway. The closet was closed, and he noticed the bathroom door was closed as well. Was that where Scriabin was hiding?

He waited a few seconds, trying to make a decision, before he thought to check his bedroom as well. He flicked on the lights and found it empty, with no sign of anyone. So, it had to be the bathroom then.

Edgar did notice, however, that the toy was missing.

He walked over to the nightstand and traced his fingertips across the spot where the toy had once stood. Edgar didn't feel anything, no deep sense of unease as before. He'd like to have it back there, sure, but it was just as if he'd misplaced his keys. The urgency, the calm it used to invoke in him, wasn't there. And that'd make sense, wouldn't it? If Scriabin was out, if he was free, then he had no connection to the toy anymore... Edgar had no connection to the toy any more through him. It was a normal, mundane thing now.

Just like everything else.

Scriabin must have been in the bathroom... he must have taken the toy when he'd come in here earlier.

What was he supposed to do now?

Scriabin had mocked him for it for so long, but now his ignorance shone plainer than any of his words had accomplished. Edgar had been so isolated, so cut off from other people, so alone that now, he didn't know what to do for him. He didn't know what he was supposed to do in a situation like this. Should he go to him? Tell him to come out? Talk through the door? Make sure he was there at all, and hadn't just left out the front door? The thought sent a cold jab through his hands. What was he supposed to do? Should he wait for Scriabin to come to him? Should he leave the apartment himself and try to figure this out somewhere else? 

Edgar sat down on his bed, looking down at the floor, and he noticed after a few moments his hand groping thin air. He looked over, and saw he was reaching for where the toy would have been, to play with it idly as he had so often before. 

When did habits become instinctual? He still had the capacity for change, didn't he? He'd told Johnny that, people could change... he'd changed already just coming to this point, he could change again coming out of it. Couldn't he? At the moment, it seemed impossible. The hole in him would never close. The habits would never break. 

The pain would never ease. That longing would never stop.

He couldn't think like that. He couldn't do this to himself. He had to... he had to...

Edgar kicked off his shoes and lay down on his bed, his hands across his stomach, and he stared at the ceiling. 

He'd told Todd they'd need time... it was more that he hoped time would make this easier, because otherwise he had no idea how he'd survive this.

After a while, he got up, shut off the lights, and went back to bed. He stared at the ceiling in the darkness before he took off his glasses and set them aside. They wouldn't do him any good. 

He brought one hand up to his face, and his fingers found the well-worn grooves beneath his eyes.

This didn't undo anything that had happened to him... this didn't erase their past together, their existence together, any more than it could erase the scars that had been left across his body. Things would be different from now on, they'd have to be, and the future looked bleak and terrifying and unbearably, unbearably lonely, but nothing could take away what they'd once had. He could remember what it was like, if nothing else. It had happened.

Edgar wasn't sure why it was a soothing thought, that it had been real to the both of them once, but for some reason it let him close his eyes.

Still, he lay awake for a long time afterwards, his thoughts racing, the anxiety rising and fading like an inescapable burning heartbeat, imaginary conversations playing out in his head, imaginary arguments, memories of things they'd said and trying to pin down what it had felt like to have another person inside him. To have his being intertwined so thoroughly with someone else's that now that they were apart, he felt like half a person. He wanted to sort it into the neat boxes Scriabin had mentioned, goddamn him and his metaphors, but he couldn't. It remained elusive, taunting him with its importance and its refusal to be categorized and understood and easily dealt with. No more graspable than what it was that had motivated him to save Scriabin, that part of him he knew was stupid and would just get hurt again, the part that got routinely kicked and kicked and kicked to the ground, and somehow kept getting up again.

What was that? What was the name for that? What was it about him, what made him so stupid? What let him...

_You care about people... even when they're broken._

_You care about people even when it gets you hurt, _Scriabin had said in response, _or killed._

Scriabin had mocked him once for being unable to feel, unable to connect to other people. What was this? He couldn't understand it, he couldn't explain it.

And most importantly, he couldn't make it go away.

Finally, after a great deal of effort, he managed to get himself to focus on his routine tomorrow, what he'd have to do - iron it out to pointless exact times to get up and do things, just to think about the numbers more than anything else. Things to get at the store, to call his work, to take Todd to school, to get dressed, to call the shop about his car, to talk to his insurance again, all of it, all of it had to be done. All of it had to be done, and he planned it in his head, made an exact schedule, planned it out and went over it again and again and envisioned it in his head, imagined himself doing it, and finally his thoughts began to haze and blur, and Edgar slipped away.

\---

He wasn't sure how long he'd slept, but it couldn't have been very long. It was still dark when someone sat down on his bed.

He was never very quick when he first woke up. Bleary-eyed, Edgar groaned and thought about whether or not it'd be worth it to lift his head off the pillow. God, he was so tired. Was it worth it? Maybe it was nothing.

No, there was definitely someone sitting on his bed, and that was something that he should probably pay attention to, as much as he didn't want to.

Edgar reluctantly turned over, propped himself up on his elbows with a long-suffering sigh, and could just barely make out a blurry shape in the darkness. Too big for Todd.

"Did you mean what you said?" Scriabin said, and he couldn't read the tone of his voice.

Maybe it'd be easier when they couldn't see each other now, when Edgar couldn't be constantly reminded of his strange new body and his inhuman unfamiliarity with how it worked. He could pretend he looked as he once had, with the right glasses and the long hair and his long coat, and that might make the throbbing in his heart ease a little.

"Which part?" Edgar dragged a hand across his face, trying to wake himself up, his words muffled. Goddamn it, why did this keep happening? Why did people keep trying to talk to him when he was asleep? Johnny had come into his room just like this and wanted to have a deep philosophical conversation too, hadn't he? He could only imagine how angry Scriabin would be at the comparison.

"That you wanted to live your life with me." Still unreadable, carefully neutral. Had he been practicing on his own? His speech sounded more natural than it had before.

Edgar stared at the dark shape, and he sighed around his hand. "I think so. That's the feeling I get. I don't know if something'll happen that'll make me change my mind, but right now that seems right."

A pause, and Edgar ran a hand through his hair, still trying to get his thoughts to fall into logical order. Was it waking up, or was it a consequence of lacking Scriabin's insight, his guidance? What had he done to Edgar's thoughts while he'd been in there, could he guide them along the paths he liked? Organize them like a school of fish?

"How typical. You can never truly commit to anything. 'Maybe' isn't exactly a soothing answer to that question, Edgar." Closer to his old haughtiness, shadows of his older self leaking through.

"I didn't know that's what you wanted." Edgar rubbed his eyes, then sat up a bit more so he could lean back against the headboard. "I'm just trying to be honest."

"Hmmph." Quietly, without much force. "You still think things can change, do you?"

"They have already. We're never going to be... what we were again, so... I want things to be different." Edgar shrugged. "So... I'm going to try and be honest." Scriabin didn't say anything for a few moments, so Edgar continued. "You don't have to, though. I guess that'd be a little much to ask from you."

"As if you know anything about me." Wounded dignity and irritation, just what he'd expected, and Edgar couldn't help but smile a little. Sometimes he could still see him so easily. "And as if you were even being honest in the first place."

Edgar shrugged again. "I don't know why it's so hard for you to believe someone could lo-"

He cut himself off, a chill running through him, his heart spiking and he was awake now, that was for sure. His eyes widened, trying their best to make out more details in the dark, to see what Scriabin was doing, to prepare for what'd be coming for saying something like that, even insinuating something like that...

The dark shape by the foot of his bed stood, and he could barely track it as it moved across his room. Was he gesturing? It would make sense if he was. "You've hurt me, Edgar. More than once. Surely you haven't forgotten that, have you?"

"No." The shape blurred away and there was nothing for a few disconcerting seconds, then Edgar could see motion again, a little to the left of where it once had been. Coming back around, pacing perhaps. He closed his eyes and sighed, a sudden weight aching through his shoulders. "I know I've done that."

A pause as perhaps Scriabin considered this, or wanted to give his words more weight. How desperately Edgar wanted to reach across them and find out exactly which one it was.

"How am I supposed to trust you?" Scriabin said, eventually, from the foot of his bed again, but his voice moved. "It'd be a stupid thing to trust someone who hurts you. Haven't I told you that before, my boy?"

"It is a stupid thing. I'm not disagreeing with you." Edgar opened his eyes. Faintly, he felt a smile again, one of the ones he could never determine the source of. "And that's very much how I feel about you, most of the time."

A pause, and he could hear Scriabin taking a breath from somewhere to his right, and he shut his eyes and tensed. Would he lash out at him in one way or another? What was he going to do, how was he going to react? What was he feeling, he groped in the darkness for it, what was he feeling now? He had to finish his thought before Scriabin decided to stop listening or do something he'd hopefully regret.

"But like I said before... something like this, it doesn't make sense." Edgar touched a hand to his chest again, over his heart. "I can't explain it away, I can't make it stop with words. I just... I just feel this way about you, even though I shouldn't."

Silence, and Edgar let out a breath. He could feel his heart under his fingertips. "You said it yourself earlier, that my actions speak louder than my words... well, my actions saved you, Scriabin. I saved your life. Twice." He couldn't help but hold up two fingers. "And maybe you want to explain that away, or make it something else, or say that it's meaningless, but I don't understand why. It's your proof... your proof that despite everything I said about you, to you, after everything I've done, that I cared enough to save you. That I care about you. You have proof of that now, real, tangible proof of that. That I care." Edgar looked around the room, and he couldn't find him. He let his head fall with a long breath. "I don't know why you want to sabotage that for yourself. Isn't that what you wanted?"

There was a silence, and Edgar wondered if he should have said that, if he should have rephrased, if there was some way he could have been more careful. Avoided this silence and the threat it carried with it, the attack he knew would be coming in response because what else did Scriabin ever do?

When each second felt audible, finally he felt something pressing down on the mattress near him. He turned his head, forcing himself to do it slowly, and he could make out Scriabin's shape in the darkness beside him. His silhouette was small... perhaps he'd drawn his knees up to his chest. It was difficult for him to make out.

"I'm not sabotaging myself," Scriabin said quietly. He expected more to his voice than what he heard. "It just doesn't make sense."

Edgar waited a few seconds, and he realized he was waiting for his internal voice to kick in, and he reminded himself that his voice was sitting on the bed beside him, and he was never going to hear him again. Not the same way. Again and again and again he drove the knife into himself. It twisted his words off the path that either of them would have expected. "What if I did care about you though?"

"You don't." Quickly, without doubt. 

"But what if I did?" Edgar leaned forward on his arms a little, looking over to him but Scriabin did not move, and his shape never became more clear. It was comforting in a way to see him as an outline than as a defined shape, something vaguely reminiscent of his previous unreality. How could he have felt more real as a figment of his imagination than as an actual breathing person? "Wouldn't that explain what I did for you?"

"You don't," Scriabin said, slightly louder this time, although still without his normal strength or scorn. Like a statement of fact, something strangely apathetic. "So it doesn't make sense."

"So... what _do_ you think happened then?" Edgar scratched at his forehead, then pushed his hand through his hair and left it. "What's your hypothesis? Why do you think I did that? Do you have a better explanation?"

Scriabin said nothing.

"Do you really think it's more likely that, after everything you put me through, and after everything they told me about you and what you were meant to do to me, that after they told me I'd be coming back to life and you wouldn't come with me, after all that you really think my first thought was 'this is my big chance to score points with God'?" He was trying to speak slowly, trying to keep his voice neutral - the answer clear just from the facts without the sarcasm increasingly tinging his words, but he couldn't help himself. It was so _obvious_ to him, how could anyone believe this? How could this be so hard to understand? "You think that after they'd already told me I'd be getting what I wanted, a second chance at life without you in it, since you're always saying I just wanted to get rid of you after all..." He felt a little bad after saying that, that was more of a personal attack than he'd intended. Try and focus, remember what the point of this was. He was trying to _explain_ something. "After I was already going to get everything I wanted, to be safe and alive without any more supernatural bullshit, you think I'd put myself and everything on the line to ask them and God to save you, _just_ to make myself look good? That after everything you've done to me, I'd ask them to bring you back to put me through more hell just for that? That I really am that much of a masochist? Is that really easier for you to believe? Is that really the most likely scenario to you? That I asked them to save your life as a roundabout way of saving myself?"

As the words left his mouth, it occurred to him that they ran deeper than he'd anticipated... Scriabin had always said he _was_ Edgar, that he was a part of him, he'd said that for so long... and in a way, it was true, his roots ran down through every fiber of Edgar's being, there wasn't any aspect of him that wasn't permeated by the other in some way. Was that what had really motivated Edgar and his desperate plea to God? Some unconscious awareness that some aspect of his self was in danger, and a likewise instinctual desire to protect the self? What a perfect window for Scriabin to attack, and he hadn't even intended it...

And instead, he could feel faint tremors through the bedsprings, and without being able to make out the motion too clearly, he knew that Scriabin was shaking again.

"You've never made much sense," Scriabin said, faintly, weakly. That wasn't what he'd been expecting, what he could almost hear in his head in the thrown-back echoes of his thoughts. Where was the attack he knew was coming? Hadn't Scriabin seen that chance? That weakness? How could he have missed it, it was his primary purpose, wasn't it?

What had being pulled out of him done to him?

"Maybe not to you," Edgar said, and he sighed. "You've always had a unique perspective on things." 

He waited, and Scriabin didn't say much else, again at a bizarre and unsettling loss for words. It wasn't like him at all, and again that feeling of being near a stranger, a foreign being wearing a mask, rose in him, made his heartbeat rise and his skin grow cold.

"Do you really think that's more likely?" Edgar said softly. "Do you really think it's more likely that I'd save you as a convoluted way of getting to Heaven, instead of saving you because I care about you?" And he was nearing a whisper now, his eyes stinging. "Because I didn't want to lose you? Is it that hard for you to believe?"

Again, silence, although he could still feel the mattress shaking just so. He wondered if maybe he should reach out and touch him, but somehow he didn't think it would help, and on some level he just... didn't want to.

"A good liar can tell when someone else is lying," Scriabin said, still faint. Where was his confidence, his presence? That force of personality that had made him impossible to ignore?

"Then, that only proves my point... since I could never tell when you were lying to me." Edgar smiled a little, even though no one would be able to see it. "You said that, remember?"

Scriabin's outline seemed smaller than before. Drawing in more tightly to himself, perhaps.

"It doesn't make sense," Scriabin said again. "All I've done is cause you grief... you said that, remember?" With a shadow of his former bite, although it faded quickly. "Logically, you have no reason to have done such a thing just for my benefit. I put you through hell, as you said... and unless you really are a masochist, there's no reason for you to have saved me just to put you through more. So, are you a masochist, or are you a liar?"

Edgar stared at him, or the vague shape that was him, for a few seconds, then hummed in thought. The silence in his head made everything strange, unreal, unpleasant; each thought waiting for a companion, a counterpart. His other half, sitting so close to him and so far. "I told you, it doesn't make sense... sometimes things just don't make sense, but we still do them, or believe in them. Sometimes there's more to things than whether or not they add up." And something occurred to him, and he knew Scriabin wouldn't like it but it was too perfect to ignore. "You were in me once, a part of me, so I'd think you'd know that already... faith is much the same way."

Scriabin made a faint scoffing noise, and that was a glimpse of his normal self, something better than the small and quiet figure he didn't know how to handle now. Before he could say something, Edgar kept going.

"My faith's always been there, long before you came along, so you should know what it's like to believe in something that doesn't make sense... or to _know_ something, or believe in something, without proof. To feel something, even without an explanation. And... wow, it... it adds up, even." Edgar laughed, humorless and brief. "You tried so hard to undermine my faith, destroy it, get rid of it, replace it and... in the end, you couldn't do it. I kept it, after everything you threw at me. After everything I went through, and everything I saw, still, when it came to asking for your life, asking for mercy and forgiveness... I asked God, because I just... knew. I believed." What was it that Johnny had said before he'd stabbed in the shoulder back then...? The miracle of faith, wasn't it? What had he meant? He still didn't know. "And... this is sort of the same thing. After everything you've done, everything that's happened, it doesn't make sense but I still... I care about you. And..." He laughed again, a little longer this time. "And, it makes sense, even, because as some say, faith is love, isn't it?"

Scriabin didn't say anything, and Edgar straightened up and leaned back against the headboard, close enough to feel Scriabin's body heat, even if they weren't touching. "I remember, I remember saying, asking Johnny, asking if everything that was happening to me was a test of my faith, if I was failing and... and here I am, here we are. I can't believe it."

He felt Scriabin uncurling from beside him, and he tensed. Just as he thought, Scriabin punched his shoulder. It wasn't very hard or very coordinated, probably not even hard enough to leave a bruise, delivered at an awkward angle, but the intent of it was clear.

"Are you saying I've just been _your test from God_?" There was a hint of his normal outrage in his voice, indignation, energy and color and life that had been gone before, and even though that was dangerous, Edgar couldn't help smiling because it was far better than apathy from him. One he was much more familiar with.

"No, no, that's not what I meant." Edgar held up a hand, although he did file the thought away to think about more carefully later. "What I meant was... sometimes there are things in life that you just can't explain logically, but they're still there, they still exist. Faith is one of them... and feelings are another."

"...So you really ARE that much of a masochist, then." Unsteadily, after a long pause. Edgar tried to think of the best thing to say to that, and instead settled on the first thing that crossed his mind.

"Do you think masochists can't care about people?" Edgar found himself smiling a little again. "Isn't that one of the easiest ways to get hurt?"

Again, another silence, although he got the sense that he'd caught Scriabin rather off-guard. He could almost picture the puzzled look on his face.

"You're sticking with your story then?" Scriabin said, uncomfortably after a time, and he was drawing himself back into a ball. In the process, their shoulders brushed, and, Edgar noticed, after a few seconds when Scriabin had settled against the headboard, he could still feel his skin against his own. "That you decided to risk everything to save me out of the pure goodness of your heart? Without a single other thought in your perfect little head except rescuing the wicked and wretched from themselves?"

Edgar closed his eyes with a faint hum. The insult, the invitation to engage hovered around Scriabin's words, and he had to look past them, find the unseen path. No more circles, things were going to be different. Be unexpected. "I'm taking that story to the grave just to spite you. Does that make it easier for you to believe?"

"...That you'd do something like that to spite me, yes. The rest, not so much."

"Alright then. I want to spend the rest of my life with you just to spite you. How's that?"

A few moments, and he could feel slight movement through the contact of their shoulders. Scriabin shaking his head, he was almost sure.

"I still don't understand."

"If you don't want to accept the simple explanation and would rather make things more complicated than they are, then you can do that. I just don't see why you want to." Edgar shrugged a little. "So, I guess we're even."

And silence. He focused on the little contact they had, and in the darkness, it was easy to picture Scriabin as he should have been, as he really was. His body matching the action figure and the image he'd seen in his dreams so many times. Even now, he found his ability to visualize him properly felt a little weak, blurry at the edges... had Scriabin had his hand in that as well? Had he sharpened Edgar's mental camera just to make himself more real, in a sense? And with him gone, what would happen? Already, his mental landscape was barren, as Scriabin had pointed out to him before. What would happen without him? What had he dreamed about once without him?

"Where'd you put your toy?" Edgar said, wanting to break both the silence and his introspective thought loops. He felt Scriabin tense a little.

"It's not fair," Scriabin said after a pause, softly. "I don't look right."

"I know." With more sympathy than he'd intended, a mutual wound, and he could feel again a slight start through Scriabin's skin, unprepared. "I'm sorry."

Scriabin huffed, mild and without much strength, and it was quiet again for a time. 

"Do you know what it was like for me to hear you imitate my voice?" When Edgar was close to drifting off into his own thoughts again, and he snapped back to attention. Scriabin was almost whispering.

"In the kitchen? That's right... I don't think I've ever done that before." For some reason, he felt a twinge of shame.

"...You don't understand what this is like for me." He wasn't sure if he could blame Scriabin's new body or his state of mind for how weak his words were, how they hovered on the edge of his breaths. "You've always... you've always been you. I was... I wasn't always myself."

"When you were..." And he tried to think of a word, but he didn't think there was one for whatever developmental cycle Scriabin had gone through. There wasn't a word for what Scriabin even was, technically. What was the closest equivalent? "When you were younger?" A moment of thought. "You said, your earliest memories, they were mine... were you me, or... you?"

He didn't say anything, and Edgar wondered if he should have even asked, if there was even an answer he could understand. His skin brushed against his own as Scriabin leaned forward a little onto his knees.

"I was you, at first." Scriabin sounded distant. "And gradually, the more we spoke to one another... it was like I was standing outside myself." And there was faint motion in the darkness, perhaps a gesture with his hand. He'd always been fond of gestures. "Like I wasn't there, and then... it wasn't me, anymore. It was you, and I was... watching. And when I went through your memories, I was outside looking in and they weren't mine anymore. Your life became... your life, and mine became..." Motion in the dark again, and he could picture him trying to find words in the air.

Edgar wasn't sure what to say in response, and he found it difficult to picture. While he may have changed details, scenarios, added or taken away things, the viewpoint of his memories had always remained the same - he'd always been himself, after all. What would something like that have been like?

"You and I, we mirror each other," Scriabin said, and there was a sense that he was almost talking to himself, sorting through his thoughts. "What you see in me, you see in you, if you would look... maybe changed, altered, improved..." And that should have had his normal egotism attached, but it didn't. "I grew in you... everything, it comes from you. What does that make me?" His voice was fading. "Your reflection? What does that make me now?"

Edgar still couldn't find any words, and he waited to see if Scriabin would continue. His voice was trembling a little.

"Who am I? Do you realize how significant this question is for me?" A moment, and he felt his hand fall to the sheets. "Do you realize how it felt to hear you imitate my voice? What I would say? When I couldn't... I couldn't even get my thoughts together to say it myself...?"

Guilt rose and burst, and without thought Edgar reached out those few inches and he took hold of Scriabin's hand himself, bleeding concern. "I'm sorry, I didn't know it'd bother you, I just..." Keep talking, he had to say it, they had to talk to each other now. "I just, I missed... I kept waiting to hear you in me and I never did and I just, I..." He couldn't think of a justification. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..."

Scriabin tried to tug his hand away for a few seconds, more so like he was testing his grip than anything else, but in the end he let him hold it. He took in a few trembling breaths before shaking his head. "No, you never mean to. Isn't that right?"

An admonishment and one that stung in a way very familiar, as deeply as perhaps it once would have, and Edgar hung his head and made an unconscious, unhappy sound. He felt Scriabin tighten his hold on his hand for a moment when he did, although he wasn't sure why. Again he ached to be able to hear him again, feel his feelings, just _know_ him, if only so he could know that his remorse was sincere.

Scriabin sighed eventually, long-suffering and tired, and he pulled Edgar's hand upwards.

"Give me your wrist."

It was a pointless demand, as he already had Edgar's hand. It was enough though to shake Edgar out of his thoughts to make a curious sound, and he felt Scriabin's fingers moving from around his palm to his wrist.

"What are you doing?" A moment, and Edgar tilted his head. "Are you listening to my heartbeat?"

He'd never thought he could hear someone roll their eyes, but he was sure that was what he heard at that moment. 

"Why?"

Scriabin didn't answer, and he didn't move his fingers away. Edgar got the feeling that he was planning his words, thinking of something to say, and it had always come to him so quickly before. The speed of thought, perhaps, or just the speed of thoughts aligned with Edgar's, already well-practiced. What was it like to have thoughts of his own now?

"...It's tempting to lie to you, even about something as simple as this," Scriabin said, and this time his calm detachment sounded more familiar. He'd heard him do that on occasion before, when he'd think out loud to himself about which way he wanted to toy with him. Edgar never thought a day would come when something like that would be a relief. Any flash of familiarity, of the person he'd once known, had suddenly become so precious. "But I remind myself that you can't tell the difference between lies and truth anyway, as you proved earlier tonight, so what's the point?"

Edgar rolled his eyes and sighed, but didn't say anything. Scriabin's fingers were warm on his wrist. 

"...I had no heart of my own until now. Only yours." And the familiar tone was gone... back to the unsettling, quiet thoughtfulness from before. Strangely delicate. "I've heard your heartbeat all my life, and I can't even compare my familiarity with it to breathing air, since I heard you doing that as well. They were both such regular fixtures of my existence that I barely paid them any attention."

"...But when we were together, in dreams and things like that, I could've sworn..." Edgar felt disconcerted, uncomfortable in a way but he couldn't quite pin down why.

"If you felt my heart then, it was only a shadow cast by your own." Completely unfazed by his question, unnaturally detached. "Your body only has one heart, one that we shared at times." And he tightened his grip a little. "Ah, and I can feel it jumping now. Does that thought bother you?"

That question at least was familiar, even if the rest of this felt so alien. "I just never thought of it that way before."

"That we shared a heart?" Scriabin said. "We shared a mind and a body, but for some reason, your heart is what bothers you?"

"...I just never thought of it before." Edgar felt oddly like he'd been pinned down, trapped in some kind of mistake, and he looked down. "I guess we shared everything back then."

"Hmm." Like he didn't quite agree with that, and he felt Scriabin's grip tighten on him again, a faint shiver to his fingers. "Your body, certainly, at least. And all that entails."

An oddly specific answer, and with him, that had to mean something. Why would he shy from saying everything, there must have been something about that thought... faintly, something called for his attention and he struggled to grab it. What was it to share everything with a person, their mind, body and...

"My soul... that's what you're avoiding." Edgar looked back up at him. He still couldn't make out much in the darkness, and tried to fill in the outlines with his memories. "Satan asked if you thought we shared a soul."

That tremor through his fingers again, a faint quiver in the darkness. This question bothered him, it was obvious, but why?

"He did." Carefully.

"Do we? Or... did you? Did we share a soul?"

"Tell me... what _is_ a soul?" Scriabin did not move from his position, and he could make out that he was looking down at their hands. "How would you define that?"

"Well..."

"Because I was not knit together in your mother's womb as you were. As you all were." A reminder in more than one way again that Scriabin was not _human_, and Edgar swallowed. "I'm not one of God's creatures. We both know that. I'm something else entirely, something from outside his influence, from a system he does not answer to or have any power over. Would something like that have a soul? Do you think I have a soul now?"

"I don't know." He really didn't know what else he could say.

"Do you think I'm human now?" He had no idea how much he'd been dreading this question until it came out of Scriabin's mouth. He swallowed again, his mouth dry.

"I don't know." Softer.

"Mm." Mild and curious, the complete opposite of the reaction he'd expected, and still he waited, tense and on edge, for the catch. "So, the question is rather pointless, isn't it?"

He didn't want to say it again, but still it came from him. "I don't know. I guess."

There was an awkward silence, and Edgar struggled to calm down his heart. It was embarrassing somehow for Scriabin to be listening to it while it beat so hard, like he'd be judging him for it. Like he could use it to determine how he was feeling, and shouldn't that have been comforting? Giving Scriabin another line into his emotional state, like the countless ones he'd had before? Instead, it left him feeling exposed.

"Why are you listening to my heartbeat, anyway?"

Scriabin shifted, perhaps in apparent thought, before he answered the question. "I wanted to compare it to my own." A bit of hesitance, like he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to say that. "See if I remembered it as clearly as I thought."

_Try and remember what it was like being with me? _he thought and winced, a minor spike in his heartbeat again that he was sure Scriabin would feel, and still, there was something about the thought that made it hard to let go. 

"Do you miss being with me?" Edgar breathed.

"You're right here, aren't you?" Scriabin said, without strength.

"Do you miss me?"

A few moments, and Scriabin shuddered slightly, letting out a long breath. "What a stupid question."

And the urge came to him again, the words, the impulse, and the feeling, and could he take that risk? Here in the dark with him like this, he'd done it before, and what would happen if he took it now? What was the worst he could do to him now? His judgment wasn't clear, he wasn't thinking as clearly as he should have, a sudden urge to just be honest rising through him and clouding out everything else.

"I miss you."

Edgar felt him start, the hand around his wrist and his fingers tightening, the tremble through the mattress, before Scriabin fought it back down and managed to speak again, forcing scorn into his voice without effect. "What a stupid thing to say." Followed by breathy humorless laughter.

"It's true though."

"I'm sure you think that." Faintly, and it sounded as though he was smiling, although he could only picture it as a bitter one.

Edgar sighed. That hadn't exactly been the reaction he'd been hoping for. Expecting, perhaps, but hoped for, not so much. What _had_ he been hoping for? The empty space within him mocked him with potential answers he could no longer find. "I do care about you."

"I don't believe you."

"Haven't I proved it enough already?" Edgar tilted his head. "I don't know what else I can do."

He saw motion in the dark, Scriabin perhaps shaking his head in return. "That's not my problem, is it?"

Every effort he made to reach out to him, Scriabin batted away, and how was he not used to this by now? What kept him trying when he knew what the results would be? How many times would he have to say it and be rebuffed before he finally learned his lesson? His heart had felt so bare that he was sure that would somehow make a difference, somehow Scriabin would be able to sense his sincerity, would realize he was telling the truth and he would finally just accept it, since that seemed like the appropriate reward for actually talking honestly about his feelings for once, but no. Scriabin of course refused, stubborn and contrary to the bitter end. There was always that part of Edgar that never learned, that always kept trying, that never stayed down. And to think, Scriabin had always criticized him for giving up so easily. What was this, how many times had he said the same thing to him with no result?

"Then what is it that you want? If you don't want me to care about you, if you refuse to believe it no matter how many times I say it then what is it you want from me? What is it that you _want_, Scriabin?" And on a whim he twisted his hand out of Scriabin's grip and grabbed his wrist, and the shadow jerked his head up to look at him, startled although he couldn't make out his expression. "What do you want me to be to you?"

And Scriabin didn't say anything, just sat there looking at him while Edgar's hand trembled around his wrist, his bones hard beneath his fingers. Finally motion in the darkness, his head turning away, downwards.

"I'm trying to figure that out." Shaky but resentful, like a trapped animal. "This is a lot to take in at once."

Of course, not an actual answer. Of course. What else did he expect? "Well, tell you what." Edgar let his wrist go, and he saw it blend back in with the dark blur as Scriabin pulled it to his chest. "Figure out what you want and tell me so I can do it and we can stop doing this shit to each other, alright? Because I for one am so sick of it I can't see straight." He pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a breath. "I'm so tired of this." A moment of awkward silence, and he wondered if he should have said it but it was true, and a sudden sweep of exhaustion. God, it was true. All of this, every single thing that had happened today, everything that had happened in his life up to this point. "I'm so tired of all of this. I'm sick of trying, I'm going back to sleep. Figure out what you want on your own."

Edgar turned away from him, slid back down beneath the covers, flopped against his pillow in a clear indication that the conversation was over, and he closed his eyes. He was so tired of this, tired of reaching out to him and hearing no response, the chasm that stood between real understanding, if such a thing had ever existed to begin with.

He waited for Scriabin to say something, and he didn't. And he waited for Scriabin to get up and leave, and he didn't do that either. He could still feel his weight on the other side of the bed, and he wondered if this was his version of a standoff, if he was going to sit there stubbornly and just wait for Edgar to get back up and finish the conversation. Stare into his back to make it impossible for him to actually fall asleep. Well, if that's what he thought, he had another thing coming. Scriabin wasn't going to keep him awake that easily.

Sure enough, eventually Edgar found his thoughts drifting, consciousness flitting in and out, vague glimpses of awareness when something disturbed him that were easily glossed over. Someone shifting on the bed beside him, but his mind shut it out quickly enough. And then someone very close to him, but his mind assured him that it was just Scriabin and there was no call for alarm, and he didn't move.

In the deepest twilight before sleep took complete hold, he felt someone's arm loop around him from behind and a hand press against his chest, and his mind told him that it was just Scriabin listening to his heart.

Nothing to worry about.


End file.
